


The Apollo Archetype

by faantine (BreathingSpace)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Modern AU, Slow Build, UST, University AU, also guest featuring: my appalling tags., also there is so much drinking in this fic this is becoming withnail and i please stop me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2014-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreathingSpace/pseuds/faantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has begun to feel very off-centre recently.</p><p>Grantaire sits quietly in the sidelines, also feeling wrong. One of that makes him feel that has blonde hair and vaguely resembles an outspoken mop.</p><p>Previously 'Children of the Revolution'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Living in a castle definitely had its merits, Grantaire decided, as he laid his head on the side of his chair and good naturedly contributed to the shouting match in front of him.

“That’s hardly the fucking point though, is it? I can't believe you could be so short sighted as to-”

“Enjolras, seriously, you’re going to take down a light fitting.”

This was definitely one of them.

Combeferre wriggled his glasses to the end of his nose and peered out over their rims, glanced to his side. “Oh good, it’s started again.”

Grantaire stretched out in his chair, all the way to his toes. “Some idiot had the audacity to talk about a thing. You know how he gets about things.”

“Was that idiot you?”

“Not initially.”

Combeferre raised an eyebrow at Grantaire, and then surveyed his best friend, the person he most frequently fantasised about kicking in the shin, for a moment and a half before snapping and saying “Fuck this, I’m going to bed. It’s good practice, I suppose, Enjolras has been freaking out about this debate we’ve got.” He stood up.

Combeferre’s blonde friend, the Greek, had stopped speaking and was looking at Grantaire through slitted eyes. Just _looking_. _Jesus fuck, he’s like a cat_. Halfway between a look and a glare. “Don’t you dare tell me off for making noise, you haven’t got a leg to stand on.”

Combeferre’s Greek friend tossed his head and carried on talking. His delicate neckbones stood out.

Combeferre’s Greek was actually a politics student from near Belfast. He drank strong black coffee from a cafetiere and occasionally bit his nails. He was intense and Grantaire hated him.

He watched Combeferre go to bed through similarly narrowed eyes, then turned to Grantaire and said, “I’m going to bed. We’ll be discussing this further tomorrow.”

“Sounds cool, Enj. See you then.”

Enjolras flicked his eyes towards Grantaire again, almost too quickly for him to read the expression, and disappeared upstairs with an air of flightly majesty.

Grantaire snuggled further up in his chair and sipped his whiskey. He had just reached the stage where, if you flip your head from side to side, it feels as if your sight is being left behind. He was too soft and warmy to bother going anywhere soon. (He also wasn’t quite sure whether or not he could stand). Besides, it’s nicer to watch some things retreating when you’re not sober.

                ~*~

Grantaire woke up cold and bent the wrong way. There was something in his hair. It kept displacing itself, falling off and arriving back on again. Grantaire wrinkled his nose and shuffled indignantly.

“Grantaire?”

“…”

“Grantaire?”

“Piss off.”

“Grantaire, it’s me.”

He opened a sleepy eye.

“Oh, hey Prouv. You’re, err. Stroking me.”

“I didn’t want to wake you up and start leaping about in shock. You sometimes do that when you’ve had a fright.” Jehan, in his morning wild-haired glory sat on the arm of Grantaire’s chair and started absent-mindedly hugging the cushion he’d taken from behind his head. “Did you spend the night down here?”

Grantaire looked blearily around. The fire had burned out in the grate, the sky was cold and grey and Northern. He was colder than he was when he went to sleep and his whiskey was gone. “Ngh. Must’ve”.

“Aren’t you stiff?”

“No. But don’t take that as a negative testament to your hair-stroking skills”.

Jehan hit him in the face with his cushion. “Fuck off.”

“You should have known that was coming.”

“Fuck off. At least I’m not going to have neckache.”

Grantaire rolled his head (the fibres in his neck were absolutely _rigid_. This day was going to be horrendous) and stretched out his feet. “What’s the time?”

Jehan glanced at his watch. “Half eight. I’ve got a lecture in half an hour and you’ve got a tutorial with Dr. Valjean at ten. The essay you’re due him is on your desk. I returned that Voltaire book, by the way.”

Grantaire was wide awake now.

“ _Why_ do you know my timetable?”

“You don’t. Someone’s got to.”

“Jehan, that’s really odd.”

“So is going home with two girls and waking up with four, but I haven’t remarked on _that_ until now. And Combeferre felt bad about Enjolras spilling coffee on the book that you lent me, that I lent him, that _he_ lent Enjolras, so he proofread your essay for you. He had to change ‘Mary Seacole was a total badass, I shit you not’, but apart from that he said it was quite good. Are you coming to see the debate tonight?”

“What debate? Wow, I am so hungry. What debate is that?”

“Intercollegiate, University versus Hatfield. Training for the Cambridge match.” Jehan cuddled the pillow close to his chest again. “We’re going to have lunch in the Musain before, are you in?”

“Oh _fuck_.”

Jehan looked instantly alarmed. “What?!”

“No, nothing, I’ve just remembered where I know the debate thing from. I’ve got a fight with Enjolras to finish, oh _shit_.”

Jehan blinked. “That’s never stopped you before.”

“Yeah, but I don’t like to spread them out. That just gives him time to think about how much he hates me.”

Jehan looked at him gently. “He doesn’t _hate_ you.

Grantaire let his head fall back. “Yeah, whatever. Musain. What time?”

“I don’t know. Twelveish. Set up a tab if you’re there first.” Jehan slid off the arm of the chair and put the cushion back on Grantaire. “I’m going, I want to get something to eat before I starve to death in the lecture hall. I’ll see you there?”

“Yeah, sure. And thanks for the book, by the way.”

Jehan smiled. “It’s fine. Ten o’clock.”

“Jehan, I’ll be there. Thank you.”

 ~*~

There was a part of him which he hadn’t yet worked out, and it came in the form of a very slight pain.

Deep down, he supposed, he knew he mostly liked girls. He always had. But his boy was pretty enough to be a girl. And He also had _passion_. It was… who the hell knows. Some sort of’ venerable fire’, which you’d have expected to have died out on Crusade or in the French Revolution. Enjolras was archaic, everything about him. If you pissed him off, he’d set his jaw in one way, tilt his head in another and stare at you until you either backed down or cried (that had happened)

(although _not_ to Grantaire.)

He’d sit and brood moodily and stare into empty cups and lie on sofas like a Bellini sculpture and then stand up and be opinionated about something and then lie back down again. Grantaire wrote it off to having lived in Northern Ireland. He was so fucking wonderful that Grantaire disliked him on principle. He disliked everything about him so much that it came right around in a full circle to an almost fierce love. He spent every living moment baiting Enjolras, but he’d always be there at the end, just watching him _talk_ , and feeling something hot being tugged at under his skin.

~*~

Dr Valjean (mid fifties, expert in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth French peasantry and with a daughter at the University whose main purpose seemed to be to illicit debate as to _why you’d choose to study at the Uni your dad taught at_ ) had looked at him several times and said “I don’t know. ‘Pragmatic, strategic, audacious pro-feminist of the early nursing world’ doesn’t quite sound like _you_ somehow. Adding a footnote purely to say ‘because he was a twat’ is more your style.”

“You did find that funny, though.”

Dr Valjean raised an eyebrow at him over the top of his reading glasses. “It’s got to stop.  I’m master of your college. I _know_ you. I know you’re bright. Some of this material is publishable.” He scanned a pencil down the margin. “‘Cardiomyopathy of the British Empire.’” He nodded to himself, took a moment, and turned back to Grantaire. “You know what I want from you next week.” He closed his book, Grantaire’s essay marking the page. “We’re finished, I think.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“No ‘hilarious’ footnotes, this time.”

“No.”

  
“Remember,” Dr Valjean peered at Grantaire over his glasses and pointed a pencil at him. “I know where you live.”

Grantaire smiled weakly and walled out of his teacher’s office. He was the envy of most of his friends for having Dr Valjean, no matter how many times he told them he had to feign an interest in the French feudal system to get him. He was a good man; stricter than Hell, especially where stashing alcohol in the cabinets was concerned, but he was good. Combeferre liked him particularly.

 

~*~

 

The Musain was renowned for being a student café, and avoided by everyone else because of it. Jehan was already there, making notes on something, every now and again pausing to glance up at Joly. He wouldn’t be listening. Grantaire knew that trick.

As soon as he came through the door, Joly raised his eyebrows at him in greeting. “Hello. You don’t look well.”

“He slept in the common room last night” said Jehan, not even bothering to look up.

Joly turned back to Grantaire. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t seem to go upstairs.”

“Were you drunk?”

“...marginally.”

Joly continued surveying him. “Hmm. Have some bread. You look hungry. I’ve torn one of my nails partially out of my nailbed, look. ‘Chetta says it’s nothing. It really hurts, though. Did you see anyone else on your way here? Don’t eat bread like that, you’ll choke.”

Grantaire, unable to say anything over the slice of bread in his mouth, gave him a Look until Joly squeaked “I’m just worried about you!”

“Grantaire, stop winding him up. Oh, hello.”

Combeferre had walked in and sat down beside Jehan. Beside him, Enjolras unleashed a tidal wave of paper onto the table.

Joly looked up at him. “Just a bit of preparation you’re planning on doing then, is it?”

Enjolras sat down an empty seat away from Grantaire. He chanced a glance over at him. He was wearing jeans and a red, V neck jumper that he wore so often he’d worn holes in. Grantaire thought about asking him if he owned any more clothes. One of the holes, over his wrist, showed the junction between two bones. He watched them working under Enjolras’s skin.

 

He wondered if Enjolras’s skin would taste of cream, but dug his nails hard into his arm until he stopped.

 

“Hello. What the motley _shit_ is going on with all that paper?”

“Ah, you’ve arrived, then.” Grantaire looked over his shoulder to see his oldest friend lolloping along across the floor to them, beaming away. Feuilly followed him, his Blackburn Rovers cap almost hiding his eyes.

“Too right I fucking have, and I’ve been beaten to it by about eleven trees.”

Enjolras, who had been in muted conversation with Combeferre, looked up warningly. “Just sit down, Courf.”

“Ye-as, Come ahn Courf. Sit daun.”

“I don’t take the piss out of your accent, you English bastard,” said Courfeyrac, taking a hefty swat at Grantaire’s ankles. “Anyone seen Marius?”

“If he doesn’t turn up soon, you’re going to have to stand in for him,” said Combeferre darkly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You can give him all the notes after. Of course, you’ll have to dig him up first because Enj will have killed him.”

Enjolras smiled dryly.

Feuilly slithered in next to Grantaire and whispered, “Can I have some of your bread?”

“’Course.” Grantaire leant over and picked up the bread basket that he had rescued from Enjolras’s paperlanche and placed strategically close to him. Two of his knuckles came within about a centimetre of Enjolras’s ankle.

“Thanks. Where have you had this squirreled away?”

“It’s just been under my chair,” said Grantaire, resting his mouth on two of his knucklebones. “What’s that all over your hands?”

Feuilly looked down, looked up again and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Oh. Charcoal. I’ve just come from the studio. That’s why I haven’t eaten yet. Thanks, I’m starving.”

“Engineers use charcoal now, do they? Huh. I thought you were pulling a reverse Michael Jackson or something.”

Feuilly looked as if he was about to do something, although he didn’t quite have an idea what yet. He was spared by a “Hello!” from behind him. Pontmercy had just sauntered it, and evidently he hadn’t seen Enjolras’s face yet. Grantaire absently noted that that’s probably what Gabriel looked like when he punched Satan in the face.

“Where the _hell_ have you been?” he burst, half standing up.

Marius stood, stunned. Some other diners did, too.

“Um, hey…”

“We needed you here _half an hour ago_.”

The friends’ faces flipped from one to the other in rapid succession. _It’s quote fun when it’s not happening to me_ , Grantaire thought. He looked from Marius to Enjolras again. There were two smudges of colour on his cheekbones. His eyes were like hot ice, but they always did that when he was angry. If he were ever to become radioactive, his superpowers would centre around his eyes, Grantaire was sure of it.

“Leave it, Enj, it’s not a problem. Marius, come and sit down, he’s just overreacting.”

“I am _not_ overreacting!”

“You are, you’re being a drama queen. Marius,” Combeferre pulled out a spare seat to the other side of him, once removed from Enjolras, who was glaring hardly at both of them.

Marius walked around warily, glancing over his shoulder at the contents of the café every now and again. Most people were looking as far away from the table as they could, all except the dusky waitress. One man was staring straight at an empty wall.

“Come on Pontmercy,” Courfeyrac pounced from his other side as soon as he’d sat down. “You owe us an explanation.”

“I’ll tell you later, Courf.”

There was a general cry of dismay.

Marius glanced nervously at Enjolras, whose gaze hadn’t softened (it very rarely did). “May I speak freely? Without fear of being hit?”  
“I’ll protect you,” said Combeferre.

“Well.” Marius leant forwards and spread his hands on the table. “I’ve met someone.”

“Oh.”

The table lapsed back into a disinterested murmur.

“Wait! Don’t you want to know who she is?”

“Marius, next week you’ll have forgotten her.”

“I won’t!”

“You will, Marius. You’re a baby sheep,” said Courfeyrac, ruffling his hair. “You follow everyone around bleating endearingly, and then trip off after someone else. Remember Rosa?”

“And Emily.”

“And Ursula.”

“And Lucy.”

“And Anne.”

“No, you bastard, that was me,” said Grantaire, snapping himself back into the conversation. “Tell us about her Marius, what’s she like?”

“Oh, Grantaire! You’ll never guess who she is!”

“Anne Widdecombe.”

“Bahorel.”

“Musichetta.”

“Oi!” The book that Jehan had be annotating up until seconds ago flew at Bahorel, who dodged it, laughing. It hit the floor and spread pages everywhere. It lay ignored for a long time, until it was picked up and silently replaced by the melancholy waitress.

“No,” said Marius blithely amid the chaos, “she’s Dr Valjean’s daughter.”

“ _Cosette?_ ”

“Wait, you mean,” Grantaire shifted further forwards on his seat “she’s actually real? I thought she was just an urban legend.”

“No,” Marius said, “she’s real. She’s so lovely. She’s studying English Lit, can you imagine?”  
“I’m studying English Lit,” said Jehan indignantly.

“I was reading Cicero in the library and she asked me how to spell _malum aureum_ ”

“Wow, she must be serious.”

“She’s the girl of my _dreams_ , Bahorel.” Marius said defensively. “She’s gorgeous. She’s got this lovely wavy blonde hair” (Grantaire’s eyes nipped, unbidden, over to Enjolras) “and sort of bluey eyes and she’s kind of _this_ tall. She was in a white dress with this long pink cardigan on, it was quite pale pink, and she was reading Chaucer, and she had this sort of _face_ -”

“Did she have a nose?”

“Yes…”

“Wow.” Grantaire sat back, recovering. “That _does_ sound like a face.”

Marius balled up some bread and threw it at him. “Shut up Grantaire! None of you are taking this seriously. I _knew_ you wouldn’t!”  
“No, _I’ll_ tell you what you’re not taking seriously,” said Enjolras darkly. “We have to be in the hall, prepared, in four and a half hours and we haven’t even written an argument. Marius, if you don’t even care, give your place over to Courfeyrac.”

“I _do_ care!” he whinged. “I want to do well! Besides, Cosette is going to _be there_.”

“Did she tell you that, or did you get it going through her bins?”

“I invited her, _actually_ ,” he said hotly, “and she says that she’s _really looking forward to it_. She used to be a debater, too.”

“Well, in that case she can teach us everything that she knows. Marius, we’re putting you in third. You’re not opening after last time-”

“And Enjolras really likes to argue,” said Combeferre with a wink. “Here’s our motion. We thought that if we took the opposing view…”

Grantaire felt something against his ankle. He looked up to see Bahorel’s raised eyebrows flitting between him, Feuilly and Joly. He nodded.

“Um, guys, do you mind if we leave? You know we’re not going to be much use, and you sound like you have a load of stuff to get straightened out-”

“Yes, we have. Bye.”

“You’re very gracious, Enjolras.” Bahorel rolled his eyes. “Come on, you three. Let’s not interfere with the Almighty’s work.”

“You know, we didn’t actually eat after all that,” said Feuilly, once they were outside. “Do you think it’s alright to leave Marius in there? I thought Enjolras was going to eat him alive.”

“Enjy is a temperamental bastard. Although it was strange to see him losing his shit at someone who isn’t you, Grantaire.”

“Hmmn.”

“I think he’s stressed.”

“Enjolras?”

“Yes. He does a lot.”

“Enjolras is stressed. Thank you very much for your medical opinion, Dr Joly.” Bahorel deadpanned. Joly pulled a face at him before saying, “Poor Marius, though. He did seem to like her.”

“Poor Marius falls in love with anyone that smiles at him. Did anyone actually see what happened to Prouv’s book, by the way? You’re a crap shot, Joly”

“I think he had it with him when we left,” said Bahorel, lighting a fag. “Hang on,” he leant back to the window. “Yeah, he’s got it. He’s waving it about to make a point. God, he needs a haircut. Think you could do it for him, Jol?”

“I wouldn’t want to. He’s really wriggly. I wouldn’t want to take off his fringe.”

“I’d want you to. I’d pay you money.”

“Don’t be horrible to him!” Feuilly said. “Jehan wouldn’t be Jehan without his hair, it’s part of him. It’s Romantic.”

“Ooh, lovey” said Bahorel with a wink.

“That’s with a capital ‘R’ and you know it. D’you want to go to Macca’s, I’m starving.”

“No. Salt intake.”

“Pizza Express?”

“Peanuts.”

“There must be _somewhere_ you can go, Jol.”

Joly tipped his head to the side. “We could always go back to the college.”

“Oh, yes, Joly. _We could always go back to the college_.”

Grantaire caught Feuilly’s eye. He was still carrying around his design portfolio, and there were streaks of black on his face from where he’d run his hand through his hair absent-mindedly. “Upstairs at the Musain? They won’t kill Jolllly here, and if we’re lucky, we might see Enjolras make someone cry.”

Bahorel exhaled. “You’re so hard on him. He’s a nice guy.”

“Really?”

“You just have to dig deep. But you’re a historian, you like doing things like that.”

“How are we going to get back _in_ without them seeing us? We’ve just left, we can’t walk straight back into view, we’d look like twats.”  
“Diversion. Make the waitress do something.”

“No, Bahorel, she’s an accident away from a nervous breakdown as it is.”

Grantaire looked at them. “ _Just walk in_. Enjolras doesn’t notice anything apart from what he’s talking about, and when he’s talking no-one notices anything but Enjolras. You’re making it seem like James Bond.”

“I’ll meet you up there,” said Bahorel, taking another drag. “Wait until I’ve finished this.”

They walked quickly and quietly through the doors (again), trying their best not to make eye contact with anyone and half-ran for the stairs. Joly gave them a small thumbs-up. “They didn’t see. We don’t look like idiots. Does she look familiar to you?”

“Who?” asked Grantaire, craning over his shoulder.

“The waitress. The one who looks like she’s about to cry.”

“Oh. Maybe, I don’t know. I think she only does downstairs anyway. Sit down, you idiot. Let's eat before I fucking keel over.”


	2. Chapter 2

Grantaire _didn’t_ die, but in a few hours’ time that did seem to be an enviable turn of events.

“They’re going to lose,” said Joly, sitting on a chair outside the hall and chain-eating Kit-Kats. “Enjy went mental, he just threw himself down on the table and didn’t move.”

“No-one _tried_ to move him?”

“They didn’t want their faces clawed off.”

Feuilly rolled his eyes and slid down the wall next to Grantaire, who said; “I still don’t understand what’s happened. Why is this a bad thing? And where’s everyone else?”

“ _Apparently_ ,” Joly swallowed chocolate and waved his wrapper about for emphasis, “they were given the side which they didn’t want to argue for. He’s arguing in favour of religion, you _know_ how he feels about that. But it’s not as if he hasn’t done this before. But he says he hasn’t got enough _work_ done. I don’t know. I don’t really want to ask.

“The debating team is a closed book to all of us,” said Grantaire.

“I don’t know, he freaks out about things sometimes. I think that’s where he is now. The others all just left him to it.”

“He looked pretty bad,” said Feuilly quietly, folding Joly’s discarded paper into little fans.

“Yeah, he’s almost as much of a nervous wreck as you, Jol”.

Joly reddened. “I am _not_ a nervous wreck”.

“Your first autopsy is going to read ‘died of an autopsy’”.

“Yeah, well. I hope it’s on you.”

Grantaire let the back of his head fall against the wall and closed his eyes. “Someone should be with him.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want him to go into hysterics”. Grantaire bowed his head and pressed the edge of a hole in his shoe. “I don’t want him to get hysterical, he’s going to make himself ill.”

“That was different,” Joly said, quietly.  “This isn’t that important. He shouldn’t get like that again.”

“He shouldn’t have got like that in the _first place_.” Grantaire stood up. “Where is he?”

Joly and Feuilly both went very slightly rigid.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’m just going to see if he wants water or something.”

“No, ‘Aire,” said Feuilly, looking urgent. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go.”

“Why not?! How different am I from anyone else?”

The other two exchanged glances.

“Don’t be cross,” started one.

“We know that he’s just being silly,” carried on another.

“Stop that and be clear, or all of Jehan’s ribbons are going to go missing and you’ll be the ones that have to explain to him why.”`

“Right, well.” Feuilly exhaled. “He’s kind of blaming you for this.”

Grantaire went very still.

“What?”

“We know it’s not your fault!” Joly jumped on after, “and he does too, really, he’s just really highly strung and he’s not thinking clearly, and-”

“What?” asked Grantaire again, slightly more loudly.

Feuilly fell back against the wall. “The night he set aside for finalising everything was last night. And apparently you engaged him in something or other, and-”

“ _What_?”

“‘Aire. He’s not _blaming_ you, he’s really not. Just give him time. He doesn’t want to admit that he made a mistake. He’s tense, you saw how he treated Marius.”

Grantaire would have answered, but something inside him was trembling.

“Oh, fuck. Oh, _fuck_.”

The trembling shook dissolved itself to tears inside his chest. He didn’t know what he wanted to do or think or say, except curl up tinily.

He tried to strangle that to keep his eyes dry.

“Oh.”

“Give him a day or so. He’s being silly, he’ll realise that.”

“What do you mean by ‘blames me’?”

“Kind of... just that.” Feuilly bites some skin around his thumb and Grantaire can’t even find the strength to make a joke about it.

“No, what exactly do you mean?”

“Oh ‘Aire.” Joly looked at him, sighed, and enveloped him in a warm hug. “Stop picking it over.”

Joly is always lovely and warm. He smells warm, and slightly clinical, with an undertone of bleach and talcum powder. Grantaire snuggles into his neck.

“He’ll be alright, ‘Aire. He’s just moody. You know this.”

“Mmmf”

Joly gave him a final squeeze and held him at arm’s length. “Why don’t you go home? You’re exhausted.”

“’M fine.”

“Are you sure?” Feuilly’s eyes looked heavy. “Jehan told me that you slept downstairs last night.”

“I slept, didn’t I? Look, I’m fine,” he sniffed.  “I’m going to the loo.”

Joly raised his eyebrows, but let him go. If Grantaire had turned around, he’d have seen him and Feuilly exchange worried glances, Feuilly surrounded by little paper fans. But he didn’t, preferring to look down at his feet and feel hot self-loathing seethe up within him. It reached his eyes, but he blinked it away furiously. He felt off balance. His blood felt heavy. He felt _drunk_ of all things.  Joly was probably right. He often was, no matter how much you wanted him not to be.

He steadied himself on a wall and told himself to stop being so silly.

He actually had no intention of going to the loo at all, but he may as well do. He didn’t want to go back to Joly and Feuilly again. And Enjolras might be around.

He found a cubicle and folded himself up very tight. Heat built behind his eyes.

It wasn’t even as if he _knew_ Enjolras. If he was the sun- which he tried _so hard to be_ \- Grantaire was at fucking Pluto. _He didn’t even want to be in his orbit_. Grantaire didn’t trust him. He always set his jaw and looked too girl-pretty. He was a politician’s son. He drank his tea black, which was weird. Courf said he liked cats and not dogs, and cats are useless.

He keened softly.

 _How dare he even think about blaming me._ Had Grantaire even started that damn argument? Grantaire doubted that he’d even spoken to him about it. To begin with.  He was hard, cold. He was unyielding. He didn’t even have a proper sense of humour. He only got passionate about things that no-one else cared about, he was probably a virgin, he got upset when he _got the wrong debating subject_. There was nothing there that Grantaire could admire. His passion was the only warm thing about him.

 

But he _was_ passionate. It was his core. He radiated heat like some people radiated warmth. _But only when he wants to. And he has a cat._

He’s dragging, though. He’s almost magnetic.

But only when he wants to.

Grantaire rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye, hard. It came away wet. Joly  had been right. He was exhausted. He was overreacting about things which didn’t matter. And if he doesn’t matter, then Grantaire shouldn’t be huddled on his own in a bathroom stall, crying about him. He almost heard Courf’s voice whispering “ _You are a strong and confident woman who don’t need no man_.”, which was simultaneously funny and downright alarming.

Where was Courf now? Probably in the debating hall. He always stood in, just in case, when he wasn’t needed. Marius was their new addition. He and Courf switched continuously.

Had the girl Marius was talking about turned up? _Was_ she pretty? He couldn’t recall anything he’d said about her. Maybe he should go and check. Would they have started by now? Probably.

He’d only started off going to these things to support Courf; he needn’t even be here. He liked Combeferre, but Combeferre wasn’t one for moral support. He liked Marius, although he barely knew him. He should get to know Marius more.

Maybe he should go in. There might at least be someone he could take home tonight. University girls are so willing to prove their independence.

He thought.

His last had been some girl over from Malaysia. The one before her had been Caribbean. He hadn’t had a blonde for a while, who was his last blonde girl? Or a ginger, a ginger might be nice.

Something in the pit of his stomach froze.

 _No, calm down,_ he told himself. _You’ve been obsessing about him, that’s the only reason. Don’t freak out_.

The last blonde girl he’d slept with had had curly hair and been wearing a red dress. It had been a fancy dress party, she was the Hogwarts Express. He’d told her off because she didn’t even have a chimney. God, he’d been so drunk.

 _It’s the red_ , he told himself. _They both wear red and you can’t remember her face, it means nothing_.

He knew how he felt around Enjolras. Enjolras was powerful. Grantaire had found the first group of people to tolerate him for longer than a month and he knew if he pissed off Enjolras, he’d be the one to end that. Grantaire admired and pitied him at the same time. It must be awful to be that aloof. He felt too hot around Enjolras, it made his skin shrink.

_It’s a power thing. Shhh, shh, it’s just a power thing. You want him to like you, but you don’t want to give in and admit that you like him in return. Shhh, that’s all._

He imagined cool fingers stroking through his hair.

“‘Aire?”

The words hit him around the face and made him sit up.

“‘Aire?”

“Cou…” he realised that his throat was full, and tried to clear it. “Courfeyrac?”

Courf’s footsteps stopped. “ _There_ you are. We’ve been worried about you. We thought you’d gone home.”

“If you thought I’d gone home, why were you worried about me?”

“Joly said you didn’t look well. Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Grantaire pressed the handle of the flush to make himself seem less suspicious. Was his face red? “Hang on.”

He opened the door. As soon as Courf saw him, his smile dissolved.

“Grantaire! You look awful! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m just tired.”

“You look like you’ve been crying.”

“No.”

“Oh, ‘Aire.” Courf seized him around the waist and held him close. Courf’s hugs were always more aggressive than Joly’s. “I hate to think of you all alone. Are you coming through?”

Grantaire sniffled. “Haven’t you finished?”

“They’ve called a break before the _final_ finals start.”

“Oh?”

“We’re through to the final finals. Now Enjy’s stopped being a diva, they’re doing really well.”

“That’s good.”

Courfeyrac squeezed his arm gently. “You should come back through. We miss you there. And Marius wants you to meet his girlfriend.”

“… really?”

“Well, he’s not _said_ so, but he keeps breaking out of conversation every five minutes to see if you’ve come in yet. He thinks he’s subtle, but he really, really isn’t. She’s gorgeous, by the way.”

“I didn’t realise Marius liked me.”

Courfeyrac started looking concerned again. “Of _course_ he does. Why would you think he doesn’t?” He hesitatied. “‘Aire, this isn’t what all this is about, is it?”

Grantaire sniffed again, wondering how much he could pass off as a cold. “All what?”

Courf looked around the bathroom, his eyes flicking over Grantaire’s hot, aching face and said “This.” softly.

“No.”

“Come on, then. You might want to wash your face.”

Grantaire splashed himself with cold water while Courf waited dutifully outside. When Grantaire came out, he smiled at him.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

Courf led him back to where he’d been sitting with Feuilly and Joly however the hell long ago that had been, and through into the hall. It looked as if they’d started again.

“Oh, shit!”

They ducked and ran along, Courf’s hand around Grantaire’s wrist, to where the rest of their friends were sitting, with a collective expression that could be summed up as “of _course_ ”.

“Now we _are_ all present…” a judge began again. Grantaire felt his knee being tapped and looked over to find Joly, who mouthed “are you alright?”

Grantaire gave him a touched smile. Joly returned it and passed something over to him.

It was one of Feuilly’s Kit Kat paper fans. On one side, he had written “I’m a FAN of you.” Grantaire glanced across to the other side of Joly to Feuilly staring impassively ahead of him. He smiled and stroked the fan’s corner.

Then he looked ahead. Marius was there, closest to them, glancing up at someone in the audience, blushing, and looking down again. Combeferre was scribbling furiously.

Enjolras was between them, staring coolly into space. His face wasn’t as angular as it should be.

The other side went first. Their first and second speakers were both girls. Grantaire considered the first one briefly, but cancelled that when he got bored. He doubted anyone was actually listening to what she was saying. Marius countered her. For all his worth, he was actually very good.

The girl who was facing Enjolras looked like she was trembling when she sat down.

Enjolras always looked so _calm_. He knew how good he was. He didn’t over-pronounce his words, like some people did. He just stood up, and he just shone.

Grantaire didn’t listen to him. You didn’t even have to listen to Enjolras. You didn’t even have to be _engaged_. He did all of that for you. He tossed his head, like he did sometimes, at the opening of his first sentence. A lot of his hair hung to the right of his face because of that, and stayed there the whole time he was talking. Sweat stuck it to his neck.

Enjolras did take sugar in his tea, sometimes.

When he moved his arm up to move his hand three times, that old politician’s trick, his jumper gaped away at the wrist. There were warm bones under his skin.

Grantaire looked down at his lap. His palms were sweaty. There was a palpitation in every artery.

He crossed his legs and looked back up.

Enjolras drew his lower lip under his teeth. It came out damp. His teeth were very white.

Grantaire looked away again furiously. He tingled, an icy sweat dusting his hands and spine. A ball of nerves was simmering in his stomach. Enjolras sat down and the friends around him started clapping very quietly, saying “Very good, very good… absolutely top hole… well done, old man” under their breath. Grantaire joined in. Proper physical contact helped to melt away the tingles.

He knew this because he knew the feeling.

_This is Enjolras speaking. This is why Enjolras had such a satellite crowd. This is just what Enjolras does. Calm down, you’re fine. You don’t even know him that well._

_Plus, he was going to blame you if this went wrong._

The final speaker for the other team was speaking now. Enjolras was pushing notes backwards and forwards to Marius and Combeferre, grinning like an athlete. His eyes caught Grantaire’s, and the smile he gave him tugged and Grantaire’s abdomen so hard it physically hurt.


	3. Chapter 3

He should be in the fucking pub. It was only him left out _again_ ; his fucking monthly allowance hadn’t come through. He threw himself sulkily down on his bed, caught the headboard and didn’t care. He had a nagging suspicion that his parents were doing this on purpose.

He rolled over onto his front. It was warm in here. His jumper clung to him so he pulled it off, got too cold and scuffled under the covers, frowning loudly.

 

His feeling from earlier still hadn’t gone away. There was a slight twinge below his stomach, just faint enough to be annoying. He pressed a hand down on it.

 

Fucking _Enjolras_. He wanted to punch him in the face and make him hurt like his stomach did. He was rich and pretended to be poor. He’d probably never heard of EMA and never lived on an estate in fucking _Swindon_ , of all places. The was a light sheen of sweat clinging to the dark trail of hair that slid under his jeans. He brushed it away. His thumb nudged at his waistband gently.

 _Oh, fuck_.

There was a definite build-up of heat under his jeans. _There_ , under his jeans. He hesitated. Fuck. Pushed his thumb forward a bit more. It had been far too long since someone had done this.

He rubbed his hand down the front of his trousers, the outline of his hardening cock and felt a moan building up at the back of his throat. He bit his lower lip to stifle it and undid himself, pretending it was someone else’s nail grazing gently against his dampening boxers. Someone else’s rough nails scoring down under his waistband, someone else’s cool hands. His breath caught. He pushed his head back, luxuriating in the feeling of himself swelling under his hard fingers. He couldn’t bite back a groan any longer. His fingers were tight, some minor cords in his neck were standing out. He imagined neckbones, warm neckbones and wristbones too, delicate breakable china, hot against blood vessels under warm skin that tastes like cream. He added a twist at the top, deliberately slowly, feeling his fingers moisten. _Oh._ He did it again. His toes curled into the sheet and he felt like something would snap. _Ohhh._ There was a hot pooling at the base of his spine and _jesus_ , he almost bit through his lip trying to keep quiet. There was warm all over his hand, his muscles unclenching in hot spasms, each one slower and sweeter than the last. His throat fluttered.

 

_Ohh._

 

The ache in his abdomen had gone.

 

He rolled over and tried not to think of the name he’d moaned into his pillow. 

 ~*~

The next morning was a right barrel of laughs.

“You weren’t with us yesterday.”

“Nope.”

“It’s not like you to shy away from alcohol,” Courf leaned in and didn’t quite succeed in looking concerned because the tips of his hair had gone green. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fucking _wonderful_.”

“Mmm, I thought as much.” He chewed on a piece of orange peel thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll get Joly to have a look at you.”

“Oh dear God, _no_.”

Courf grinned. “Anyone would think you doubted the skills of little Joly.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, remembering how Joly had put a hand on his shoulder and gravely informed him that he may have to be quarantined.

“I had a hangover and he diagnosed me with SARS.”

“He was just being cautious.”

“You all wore _masks_ around me.”

Courfeyrac laughed, the bastard. “Yeah, we did, didn’t we?”

“I refuse to take this from someone whose hair’s green.”

He looked down and fingered the tips of his hair. “Yeah. Jehan did it.”

“Why.”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you let him.”

“Oh, come on! You can’t say no to Jehan. He’s like a… spaniel in human form. He’s too gorgeous to disappoint.”

“I’m going to tell him that.”

“I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased.” Courf looked vaguely dreamy for a moment. Then he looked around, lowered his voice and leaned dramatically over his bacon. “So where _were_ you?”

“Home.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because _what_?”

Grantaire tossed his head. “Just because, okay?”

“You smell of alcohol.”

“I always do.”

He’d rather not mention the whiskey bottle under his bed.

Courf was silent, and then- “You didn’t see Enjy about anywhere, did you?”

“No. Why would I?”

“Dunno. He wasn’t around either.”

“Does that really surprise you, though? He avoids non-argumentative social situations like the plague.”

“Don’t mention the ‘P’ word, Joly might be around,” said Courf, scanning. “We had the bar-peanut talk again last night.”

“It sounds like I missed a thrilling evening.”

“You’re _such_ a bitch.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. More so than me. And if coffee doesn’t turn up beside me in a minute I’m going to punch seven people in the face.”

“You don’t need to,” Jehan purred, sitting down neatly between them with a coffee pot in his hand. Courfeyrac was instantly placated and Grantaire started so much that he almost ended up with orange juice in his hair.

“How did you _do_ that? Are you magic?”

“He’s wonderful,” Courf said reverently, stroking his arm.

“You’ve dyed your hair too, I see.”

Jehan nodded, the pink tips of his hair bouncing along. “Courf and I did it last night. We could do you, if you like. I’ve only got bleach left though, so it’ll be white.”

Jehan looked like he’d just fallen into a rack of a charity shop. He worked at a florist’s and liked his frock coat. The two had combined spectacularly and his lapel was full of freesias.

Courfeyrac rested his head on Jehan’s shoulder and kissed him on the ear. “You smell lovely.”

“You know, shockingly, I’m alright thanks.”

Jehan either ignored the slight bite in his voice or, more likely, didn’t notice it at all. “That’s alright, it’s not for everyone.” The hand that wasn’t on Courfeyrac’s knee landed on his leg suddenly. “We missed you last night, were you alright?”

“Yeah, I was fine.”  
“It’s not like you to miss a night out.”

“I could swear your two personalities are osmosing into each other.”

Courf lifted his head. “You mean diffusing. Osmosis is only used to describe the movement of water.”

“Shut up or I’ll punch you in the face.”

Jehan looked at him levelly. “ _That’s_ more like you.”

“Oh, it’s fine, guys. I’m alright.”

“You know we love you, don’t you?”

“I do,” he smiled wanly.

“I don’t love you.”

“Courfeyrac, I hope your mother dies in a freak yachting accident.”

“Look out.”

Grantaire looked up. There. Enjolras burst in with hair like the sun. Enjolras came over with what, on any other person, would be a swagger. On Enjolras it could have been anything. A sashay with attitude.

“Winecask,” he acknowledged Grantaire.

“Sit the fuck down or fuck the fuck off.”

Enjolras coloured slightly, but sat down anyway. “I like your hair, Jehan.”

“Thankyou. Courf and I thought it would be fun.” Courfeyrac nodded on the other side of Jehan, and nuzzled as far as he could into his neck. Jehan giggled and kissed the top of his head.

“Stop it you two, you’re going to give me diabetes.”

Enjolras surveyed them with a slight frown. “Where’re the others?”

“We left before Feuilly and Bahorel. They might still be at the pub, actually.”

“Marius went to bed early because he didn’t want to look tired if he saw Valjean’s daughter anywhere.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes quietly.

“I think Joly and Bossuet are with Musichetta.”

“And Combeferre’s still asleep because he was in prison most of the night.”

“WHAT?!”

“Actually, we need to have a whip-round and see what we can do about the bail, because Jehan paid and-”

“I’m fucking sorry, hold the boat here. _Combeferre_ went to _jail_ last night? _And neither of you thought it was important enough to mention_?”

“Enjy does it all the time.”

Enjolras coloured and looked down at the floor.

“That’s a point, actually,” Grantaire said, rounding on him. “He’s your best friend, did you not know about this?”

“We should have called Enjy, actually,” Courfeyrac noted, “he’s spent so many nights in the cells we could probably have got a discount or something.”

Enjolras briefly coloured. “ _Stop fucking calling me ‘Enjy’_.”

They’d probably charge him rent, actually, thought Grantaire, but he didn’t say that. Enjolras was sitting next to him and leaning their knees together absent-mindedly. Like he was too tired to keep his legs straight. “What the hell was it _for_?”

“Beating up a BNP voter.”

“Oh.”

Enjolras sipped his tea smugly.

“He missed everywhere vital on purpose, but they still saw it as assault, of course.”

“He shouted at them quite loudly about that.”

“Yes,” Courf said softly, stroking Jehan’s fingers, “I don’t think that helped his case.”

“Is he okay?”

“Oh, it cheered him up no end. We didn’t get back in until about three, though.”

“So why the hell are you two still awake?” asked Grantaire through toast.

“I’ve had, like, eight mugs of coffee between then and now. Hmm?”

“You have a lecture.” Jehan whispered at him.

“You’re my diary. I love you.” Courf got to his feet, kissed Jehan on the top of the head. “See you at lunch, guys. Or, I don’t know, fucking tomorrow perhaps. I’m so tired.”

“I’m going to go too,” Jehan told them quietly. “I want to go to sleep.”

Grantaire squeezed his hand. “Bye, Je.”

Enjolras smiled at him. “Thanks for taking care of ‘Ferre.”

“It’s fine, he’s used to it. I hope you both have lovely breakfasts and lovely days. You’re two of my favourite people and I love you more than all the flowers.”

And then he left.

Enjolras’s knee was still resting against his leg.

“I’m surprised you’re up.”

“What?”

“It’s before three o’clock in the afternoon and you’re moving about. Have you had so many hangovers you now don’t notice them?”

“That’s not how a fucking hangover works, you blonde twat. And I wasn’t out last night, thanks.”

“Oh.” Enjolras looked surprised. “Why?”

“Didn’t feel like it.”

“That’s not li-”

“Don’t you fucking start.”

He fell silent and looked quietly into his tea. Grantaire wondered whether or not he should feel bad. _Yeah, I wasn’t out last night because I had the best wank of my life thinking about you and then I spent the rest of the night throwing up whiskey_. _Why do you drink your fucking tea black you weirdo_. _You really turn me on when you shout at people_.

“Maybe I should go and see how Combeferre is.”

Grantaire started.

“Maybe you should.”

Enjolras nodded, looked as if he was about to say something, and then didn’t say anything at all. He got up and walked away. Grantaire watched him, squeezing his legs crossed.

Two hours later, he got a text from Courfeyrac saying

_I’ve found Feuilly and Bahorel. PS, Enjy said you were being weird at breakfast so I’m sending him up to your room after his seminar to apologise to you about yesterday. So put clothes on._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware that a few of you may not be familiar with the British education system, so I thought I'd throw in some notes so you're not all horribly lost.
> 
> Everyone in the UK does GCSEs when they're about sixteen; these are compulsary exams in English Literature and Language, Maths, all of the Sciences and Religious Studies, and typically at least one humanity, foreign language and an arts subject. Only the first seven are compulsary, but most people do between ten and twelve.
> 
> From then you can opt in to Sixth Form, where you study four subjects in the first year (AS Levels)and three in the second.(A Levels). This is what usually forms the basis of a Uni's decision to take you; most courses require at least one subject (English ask for English etc, Medicine and Engineering want a few more).
> 
> HERE IS THE UNI BIT, WHICH IS REALLY THE MOST IMPORTANT I JUST PUT IN THE OTHER THINGS BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO MAKE A SUDDEN MENTION AND LOSE EVERYONE WHICH I'M SCARED I MIGHT ahem, so students typically start Uni at 18/19 and stay for three years; you study the same subject the whole way through, instead the major/minor system in the US.
> 
> The University this fic is set in is based on Durham, which is collegiate; ie you're part of the main university body, but you live, work and study in one college (in this case, University College) (Seriously, Google University College, Durham, it is beautiful I shit you not. They filmed some of Hogwarts there I just can't deal with all the pretty). Otherwise lectures/individual tutorials etc are fairly similar (I think, if you're unsure about ANYTHING AT ALL, message me or shout at me at henryclervals.tumblr.com and I will do my best to make you happy again)
> 
> Okay I think I have talked enough I love you xxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

“Courf, how did you know you liked Jehan?”

Coufeyrac, taken by surprise, leapt up like an indignant salmon. “Good Lord, hello. Where did you come from?”

Grantaire sat heavily down next to him, half-heartedly trying to read his book over his shoulder. “Just answer me.”

“Oh God, I don’t know.” He took off his reading glasses and folded them in his lap. “How _can’t_ you like him though? Really? He’s just so… I don’t know. He’s all, ‘ _Hey I’m Jehan, I spell my name with a random ‘h’ because why the fuck not and I walk around barefoot and tie ribbons round my ankles and if you mess with me I’ll claw your face off’_. I need that in my life, you know?”

Grantaire thought that he might just a bit know. “No offence, but you used to sleep with everyone.”

“Dude, seriously, I don’t take that as offence.”

“Yeah, I know, but now you’re like…. yeah.”

Courfeyrac looked at him. “I could swear you write essays for a living. I was looking for someone. I found them.”

“You’re completely lovesick, you know.”

“I know.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I think you should get back. You’ll miss Enjolras.”

“Yeah, well.”

Courfeyrac put his book down (‘ _Genome - autobiography of a species’_ , how fucking _thrilling_ ) and managed to compact a very long look into a very short amount of time. “What’s going on with you two?”

“Nothing’s going on with us two. We’re both wankers who make life difficult for each other.”

“You’re forces of nature, both of you.”

“You’ve been hanging out with Jehan too long.”

“If I’d been hanging out with Jehan too long I’d say it was interesting that you were referring to yourself and Enj in terms of a sexual verb, but I’m not, am I? You’ve been on your own too long. You’ve changed. No, no, not in a bad way,” he said, pre-emptively well quelling some sort fo spout of indignation. “You’ve just … changed. You used to paint all the time, remember?”

“There’s more to life than daubing wretched little pictures, Courf.”

Courfeyrac carried on regardless. “But you don’t any more. Remember when I was freaking out and about to drop out of school, and you were the one that persuaded me not to? And now I’m here, and it’s all because of you. You always used to believe in other people, but that's easy. Sooner or later, you have to believe in yourself, too. Because that's what growing up is. It's becoming who you want to be. You have to try.”

“… you did fucking not just quote The Muppets at me.”

“Listen to me. Listen to _you_. No, listen to me again. I had the time of my fucking life trying to get His Nibs to agree to apologise about flipping out about you yesterday, and if you’re not in your room when I told him you’d be in your room he might shout at me and I don’t want that because it’s fucking terrifying.”  
“We’ve got the best friends, haven’t we?”

“And the weird-ass fucking names to prove it. Who the shit calls a kid Marius. Now go.”

Grantaire’s breath caught.

Now.

“Courfeyrac. I-”

He’d gone back to his book. “I know where you sleep, you mardy twat.”

“…okay.”

He folded himself back up and walked back towards the Castle.

~*~ 

Enjolras was there. In his room.

Looking at things.

He picked up a packet of Rizlas and gave them a meaningful stare. “You don’t want to use these.”

“Oh, what the fuck is wrong with _them_?”

“The lack of perforations for aeration makes inhalation more irritating.”

Grantaire put a hand on his hip. “You can geek the fuck out about anything, can’t you?”

Enjolras looked up. “Courf said you’d be here.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“I know _that_.”

His jumper was hitched and showing his a biteable shoulder; there was some stray hair that Grantaire longed to touch back. _Let me, let me, let me._

“Courfeyrac says you were… upset by my conduct.” He glanced up, catching Grantaire’s eye, looking thoroughly Greek. Then he lifted his head, jutted his jaw and recited by heart; “I’d like you to know that I acted irrationally and without thought, motivated by the selfish desire to justify my own mistakes to myself. It was wrong of me and I’m sorry you got hurt. ”

Grantaire leaned against his doorframe. “You forgot the bit about wandering in here and criticising stuff.”

Enjolras looked down and coloured. “Your door was open.”

“That wasn’t really an invitation to come the fuck in.”

“I’m sorry.” He looked up again. “I hope this makes things okay between us. I wouldn’t very much like to think that you were cross with me.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Grantaire crossed the room to his bookcase. “Drink?”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon!”

“We’re students.”

Enjolras tentatively stood behind him, not quite sure what to do with his hands. “What is that?”

“Blueberry vodka.”

“It’s not blue.”

“Well _duh_. It’s vodka.”

“Well I don’t know if it’s meant to be blue or not” said Enjolras hotly. “I don’t think I will. Is it okay if I smoke, though?”

Grantaire turned around with a lid in one hand, an open bottle in the other and a face that fould be texted as _wtf_.

“I didn’t have you down as a smoker.”

“It’s all natural.”

“I didn’t have you down as a _druggie_.”

“I’m not.” He fished a small packet out of his jeans and held it out to Grantaire, showing a light, cat clean papercut on his wrist. He never took care of himself. “Tea leaves, lavender and orange peel.”

“Oh.”

He smiled gently, took out rolling paper and turned away. Grantaire caught the soft gleam of his tongue, running along the edge. Some of his filling caught on it and he scraped it off on his bottom teeth, thinking no-one could see.

Grantaire put his bottle down and moved to the window.

“…can I have one of your Communist cigarettes?”

Enjolras turned. There were freckles on his face that he’d never been close enough to see before; dusted across, like chocolate powder. He looked soft, he looked _gentle_ , he looked nuzzleable. There was something inside Grantaire like a tightly wound spring; _touch him, touch him, touch him. He’d be so soft._ But instead he tensed and waited for the rebuttal.

When there was none, not even the cutting explanatory remark about the difference between being a Marxist and being a social justicesar, he looked over. Instead, there was a delicately extended hand with strokeable knuckles.

“Share mine.”

He took it gently. It was warm and slightly damp from his mouth.

His mouth has been here.

His mouth has been here.

_His mouth has been here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, I'm so sorry that this is such a tiny wee thing. I've got exams (how /lovely/) all of this week, and I wanted to post SOMETHING.
> 
> I promise, for Friday, a big long chapter, stuffed to boiling point with E/R.
> 
> And angst.
> 
> And ~~sexual~~ feels xxxxxxxxxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild slightly drunkjolras appears.
> 
> Also, warnings for blood, mild depictions of violence and abuse.

Courfeyrac was in his room, sat cross legged on his bed with Jehan and frowning at some paper. Grantaire lent against the doorframe and made himself known with, “I meant to ask you how you managed to get into your trousers today, Courf. You look like you’ve been vacuum packed.”

Courfeyrac jumped. “Jesus _Christ_. Why are you following me? And what _about_ my trousers?”

He looked from Grantaire to Jehan to his lap to Grantaire hotly.

 “They’re very tight.”

A slow smile spread across his face. “ _Well_. It was quite a struggle to fit in cer-”

“ _No_. I’ve just come to tell you, I’ve seen Enjolras.”

“Oh, cool.” His face straightened out. “Why would you want to tell me?”

“… I thought maybe you’d like to know. Jehan, you don’t have to pretend you’re not listening.”

“I wasn’t!” Jehan said, so indignantly that the bottle he was holding sloshed over the bedclothes, and immediately stopped following their conversation with his eyes to look down sheepishly. “Sorry. Do you want me to wash that?”

“Nah, it’s not the first time you’ve spilt on my bed.”

Grantaire gave a strangled cry. “ _Je_ sus! It’s like an 0800 number in here!”

Courf winked. “Where have you left him?”

“He was smoking out my window. He might still be there. Unless, of course, he’s heard you two talking and thrown himself out.”

“Ah, if he has he’ll probably have landed feet first. Drink?”

“What is it?”

“Mead,” said Jehan, shifting up on the bed and patting the warm space beside him. “There’s plenty left.”

Grantaire bit his cheek. His tongue was where Enjolras’s tongue had been a few moments ago.  His mouth tasted of smoke and orange and lavender. Just like Enjolras’s. He caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bit it, thinking of Enjolras scraping tea leaves off his lip. He didn’t want this taste to go.

And then suddenly Bahorel appeared.

“ _There_ you all are! Guys, come downstairs! I’m all alone!” He looked a bit frantic.

“No you’re not! Why are you?” Courf pushed Jehan’s feet off his lap gently. “Where’s everyone else?”

“Bossuet went to a talk or something in Newcastle and his train broke down, Joly’s with Musichetta waiting for him, Feuilly ditched me for painting, Combeferre won’t come down because he says he has a load of work to catch up on –you know, being arrested and all- and Marius has- a _date_.”

“ _No!_ Who with?”

“Cosette. And don’t you dare tease him Courfeyrac; he was pathetic enough about it without your help. I literally had to throw him out the door.”

“How could you think that I would.”

Bahorel ignored him. “Please come downstairs, I feel like I’ve got no friends. And I don’t want to go out because I hate outside and I’ve got a ban from most places.”

“A lot of them are only temporary,” pointed out Jehan helpfully.

“And I can blag free alcohol off you guys.”

 Grantaire sighed and rubbed his eyes. “If you mean me, and you do, you’re going to be disappointed. I’ve got about half a bottle of vodka and that’s it.”

“I’ve got absinthe back in my room.”

“ _Shit_ no,” Bahorel recoiled. “I’ve got things I need to do in the next three days.”

“Grantaire’s shit vodka it is,” Courf said, slapping Jehan on the thigh as he uncurled himself. “Jehan has another bottle of mead in here.”

Jehan looked at them all filthily. “You owe me so much.”

“Bottom drawer, with the condoms and socks.”

“You don’t really sort things by function, do you?”

Grantaire widened his eyes alarmingly in Bahorel’s direction, but it was too late.

“Who says I don’t?” He could even _hear_ the wink. Even Jehan joined in the long-suffering exchanging of glances.

“You chose him,” said Grantaire simply. Jehan coloured slightly and rubbed his ankle against Courf’s foot. “Are we going down?”  
“You are,” Bahorel answered. “Is Enjolras around? He’s not in his room.”

Grantaire felt a very slight stutter. “I don’t know.”

“‘Aire, why don’t you go and get your crap blueberry stuff from your room?” Courfeyrac  said, giving him a pointed look. “We’ll meet you downstairs, if you like.”

“Yeah, cool.” He nodded and pressed his pulsing tongue against his teeth. “See you there.”

Then he padded out of the room.

Enjolras might still be by his window.

He paused and thought. By his window. Leaning out, just slightly, with tension in the back of his neck. He thought about the way Enjolras pushed his left shoulder back sometimes, uncomfortably. Maybe it hurt him sometimes. Or maybe he would be sitting on his bed with warmth gently pooling underneath him. He wasn’t even sure Enjolras would come. He wasn’t even sure he’d _be_ there. Maybe he’d have gone back to his own room by now, to his work or his own bed. He worked so hard. He’d need to lie down and rest his aching bones.

“That was the longest cigarette in the world.”

Enjolras froze blindly and looked round, sheepish. “Hi, sorry. I was just going. I was looking at your books.”

Grantaire dampened his lips. “Take some if you want. It’d be weeks before I notice.”

“It’s alright. I’ve got enough of my own to be getting on with.”

Their eyes caught and they both smiled and looked away.

“Do you want me to go?”

Grantaire swallowed the bitter laugh in his throat. Stay here. “No, you’re fine. I just came to get this.” He picked the half empty bottle up from where he’d left it earlier. Enjolras noted it.

“You’re not going to drink that by yourself, I hope.”

His heart skipped. “Nah, I’m going downstairs with Jehan and the others. Do- youwanttocome?”

Enjolras looked up from the bottle in his hand.

“Can’t. Got an essay.”

“Oh.”

“See you tomorrow, then?”

“Yeah.”

He turned and swallowed something clotted in his throat.

~*~

It was _almost_ gone when he clattered down the stairs and straight into the company of an uninvited pint of milk ten minutes later. “Hey. Why is there milk on the table?”

“Decided there wouldn’t be enough vodka to go around, so we’re making White Russians.”

Grantaire looked at the milk sadly. “That is going to make a shit poor White Russian.”

“Well, go out into the street and get something yourself, then. You took your time, by the way.”

“Yeah, I went to the loo.”

“Is Enjolras not coming down?” Jehan asked, blinking sweetly. He was leaning heavily on Courf’s chest with his eyes slightly unfocused. They were curled up like kittens. God knows how long they’d been drinking before Grantaire had arrived. He decided not to ask them, because Courf would probably mention sex.

He shook his head. “He’s got an essay.”

“ _Augh_ ” Courfeyrac collapsed dramatically against the back of his chair. “We’ve _all_ got essays.”

“Yeah, well. We’re not all Enjolras.”

“And thank Christ for that.” Bahorel started pouring milk into glasses. “Can we have some music?”

 “ _Not_ yours,” said Jehan primly. “No-one wants to hear about smacked up bitches.”

“You’ll be a smacked up bitch in a minute, Catullus.”

There was a sound from the stairs.

“Am I too late?” Enjolras asked tentatively.

“What for, you wanker? Come and sit down.” He poured a healthy measure of vodka into one of the milk glasses and pressed it into Enjolras’s hand. “‘Aire said you were working.”

“I was.” He sipped his drink. “Combeferre has the book I need, and when I asked for it he told me to piss off.”

“Well,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “He’s overworked.”

“Actually,” Enjolras sat down heavily “he said _I_ was. He kind of… sent me down here.”

“And there we were thinking you enjoyed the pleasure of our company. Grantaire, here’s one for you. I’m not giving anything to you two, because Jehan looks like he’s about to pass out.”

“He’s just tired.”

“Yeah,” echoed Jehan weakly.

Grantaire shuffled up into the middle of the sofa to let Bahorel sit down.  He glanced around at Enjolras, making sure he wasn’t encroaching on his personal space too much. He was sat with his feet drawn up under his knees, staring faintly into his glass. Some of his larger freckles were visible. Grantaire breathed out and hoped God would forget everything he’d said about Combeferre in the past.

He almost leapt out of his skin when he heard “ _Ahoj, przyjaciele._ I am here.”

“Feuilly!”

Courfeyrac raised an arm in greeting. Feuilly finished fist-bumping Bahorel and sat down in the chair facing Courf and Jehan. Jehan blinked at him good naturedly.

“I got paint all over my shirt, so I borrowed one of yours, Bahorel. I hope that’s cool, we’re kinda the same size.”

“Nah, that’s cool. Vodka?”

“I bought gin, actually.”

“God be praised! Feuilly, you are a deity.” Courfeyrac leaned in over Jehan to get to the bottle. “It’s Bombay Sapphire, as well. You have impeccable taste. It’s because you’re ginger, all the best people are.”

Despite his best efforts, he’d slightly inverted Jehan. He whimpered unhappily and tried to crawl deeper into his boyfriend’s lap. Courfeyrac kissed the top of his head gently.

Grantaire looked dryly at Feuilly in his overlarge rugby shirt. “You’re wearing each other’s clothes. We’re talking full on bromance here, aren’t we?”

“Just because you have no bro,” Bahorel said, and turned his attention back on Feuilly. “Gin’s a bit English for you.”

“Oh, yeah. To bring much needed cultural diversity to tonight’s northern European theme”.

“Actually,” said Feuilly, sitting up, “vodka’s Polish. The Russians stole it, and that’s why it’s called vodka. The Polish called it _aqua vitae_ but the Russian word for ‘water’ is ‘voda’.The ‘ka’ is a diminutive suffix.”

“You need to shut the fuck up about Poland.”

“He’s right, you know,” Enjolras nodded solemnly.

Everyone fell silent and looked at him in awe.

“Vodka is Polish.”

“Oh, thank God,” Feuilly threw his arms up. “I thought you’d sided against me as well.”

“Oh, we’ll get him yet, don’t worry. Enjolras, are you trying to tell me you want gin?”

Enjolras, whose motor skills lived in constant fear of his wrath, had silently slid the gin bottle to his side on the sofa. Grantaire had been watching him gently struggle with it for about a minute, wondering if he should say anything. Enjolras shot him a wounded look as soon as he did.

“The lid’s stuck.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and gently leaned over him to extract the bottle from his side. His arm brushed Enjolras’s chest; he smelt smoky, like a good witch. He wondered how much alcohol Enjolras had actually consumed. Bahorel wasn’t renowned for being ungenerous with alcohol. There’d probably been, what, the equivalent of two shots in there? Two and a half, maybe. And Enjolras had _finished_ his already. Plus he wasn’t used to alcohol. He thought desperately back to whether or not he’d seen Enjolras eat today.

But, yeah. The top was hard to get off.

“Are you having trouble with that, Herakles?”

“Are you having trouble with fuck off, you’re not even in your own clothes,” he shot back. Feuilly raised an eyebrow. The cap clicked at last. Grantaire raised his eyebrows right back and knocked back a few mouthfuls. “I can’t remember the last time I had gin.”

“I’ve never had it,” piped up Enjolras from beside him. “Is it nice?”  
His cheeks looked flushed and white. Grantaire opened his mouth to tell him not really, not unless you were used to spirits, you’re not used to them, are you? Maybe you should stop for the night, if you really want to carry on there’s probably some beer somewhere, but Bahorel tapped him on the knee and whispered “Don’t say anything, it’ll be hilarious.”

Grantaire gave him a blank look.

“Oh, come on.” Bahorel took the bottle off him so suddenly he didn’t have time to hold on to it. “Here you are, Enj. Don’t drink it from the bottle, though. Pour yourself a glass, you know how much you’re drinking then.”

Enjolras gave him an uncomprehending stare.

“He can’t be that far gone,” said Feuilly, enraptured. “There’s no way, he’s had next to nothing.”

“He’s not.” Bahorel took the gin back off him and poured about four measures into Enjolras’s empty milk glass. “The rest’s for us.”

Enjolras tossed back his head, attempting to copy Grantaire’s practised swig and make them stop laughing at him in their minds. It didn’t work and he pitched forward, choking.

Grantaire was by his side, patting his back ineffectively. Out of the top of his eye, he could see Feuilly trying to keep his smile under control.

“It’s quite strong,” he murmured to Enjolras’s hair, sympathetically. Enjolras promptly straightened up and Grantaire’s hand fell away.

“It tastes like napalm.”

“Spirits are pretty nasty on their own.”

Enjolras carried bravely on.

Jehan twitched upright suddenly.

Courfeyrac looked at him in mild amusement, which turned quite soon to mild concern. He touched his face lightly. “Are you alright?”  
“I feel awful.”

“Going to vomit?”

Jehan looked at Courf, regally. "Yes."

Courf pressed Jehan’s face into his neck and lifted him up, bridal style. It was a good thing Jehan was so slight. He wiggled his eyebrows to say ‘ _back soon_ ’ and carried Jehan off to the corridor at the end of the room.

“It’s because he’s so _little_.”

“I don’t know, he’s also been drinking since about four this afternoon,” Grantaire told Feuilly. He went to pick up his glass again and then realised not only was it empty, it wasn’t _his_.

“Fuck, Enjolras! Have you finished that already?!”

Enjolras raised his hands in defence. “’M fine.”

Bahorel, Feuilly and Grantaire all looked at each other.

“Well. He’s never done anything by half measures.”

“I thought he’d be meaner.”

Grantaire had literally just opened his mouth to say something in his defence (he couldn’t remember what), when the door almost burst off its hinges.

“Hello? Is anyone in here?!” Marius’s voice shouted. “Please, we really need help!”

“ _Marius!_ ” They all sprang up, and Bahorel sprang up shouting. “Marius, it’s alright, it’s us, we’re here. What’s the matter?” He bounced off the coffee table, bounded around the corner and stopped dead.

“ _Shit._ ”

Grantaire and Feuilly were by his side. It was Marius, Marius and Cosette. Cosette was white and she was biting her thumbnail to rags. Marius had something heavy over his shoulder.

“Put her down here,” said Joly, Joly was also with them… Grantaire became vaguely aware of shouting from the street. Marius knelt down and laid his burden down tenderly, Cosette and Joly were around him, and it was a _person_. A girl, a young girl. Her face was covered in blood. She moved weakly and Cosette shushed her with a hand in her hair. Joly was bent over her, touching her hairline and her mouth in concern and Marius was standing stoically and the end of the sofa and the voices in the street were getting closer and all of a sudden Bahorel was pushing past him and out there too. Bossuet came in then Bossuet went out again, then Bossuet came back in again dragging Musichetta who was screaming bloody hell. His face was bleeding. Joly looked up and met Grantaire’s eyes.

“Get Combeferre.”

There was a muted crash from behind him; Enjolras had tried to stand up and Enjolras had failed. He was sitting on all fours looking disbelieving and Grantaire didn’t even think before he was beside him and stroking his hair _it’s alright, it’s all alright, we’re going to be fine_.

“Grantaire!”

Combeferre, _Combeferre_. He struggled in his pocket, pulling out his phone. Combeferre picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, you okay? There’s quite a brawl going on outside and I-”

“ _Get the fuck down here now_.”

He hung up just in time to hear Joly mutter “Courfeyrac, where’s Courfeyrac, Courfeyrac should be here…”

 _“Courfeyrac!”_ Feuilly bellowed, panicked in the middle of the chaos. Courfeyrac appeared from around the door, and his eyes shot open when he saw what was lying on the sofa.

“ _Jesus._ ”

“Courfeyrac…” Feuilly pointed weakly to the sofa where the girl lay, surrounded by worry and then, after a nervous glance to the door, went out in search of Bahorel. Courfeyrac looked absolutely torn.

“Look after Jehan,” he called to Grantaire, and pointed at Enjolras. “Take him.”

Grantaire stood up, completely dazed. Everything was surreal. He took Enjolras’s hand and tugged it lightly, but Enjolras tripped again and nearly wrenched his shoulder out of its socket before he realised it was a wasted effort.

“Come on, you.” He knelt down to Enjolras’s level. His eyes were panicked, but with mild confusion, as if he didn’t know what he was panicked for at all. Grantaire slipped a hand around his warm waist.

“Hold on to me now.”

“Mso sorry.”

“What the hell are you _sorry_ for, none of this is your fault. Just hold on to me. I’ll make it alright.”

They got up uneasily, and Grantaire wished that Enjolras was as small as Jehan so that he could pick him up and tuck him into his chest. But he wasn’t, and he was leaning quite heavily on Grantaire. There was something decidedly wrong with this picture.

“Come on, you can walk well, I know you’re good at walking. Show me how good you are.”

“Mnotta child.”

“Then help me out. Please.”

The weight on his shoulders lifted slightly. Enjolras stumbled again, and Grantaire thought they’d both go over, but he managed to jam his arm against the doorframe and haul Enjolras up with it. “Come on, stay with me.”

“Youcross sss?”

“Huh?”

“Youcrossssssssss”

“No, I’m not cross.

“M crosss”

“Come on Enjolras, we have literally a few more steps to go. When you’re sitting down you can tell me all about how cross you are.”

He heard a weak little voice calling “Courf?”

“It’s me, Jehan.”

He opened the door on Jehan who, by the looks of it, had just about finished throwing up and was bunched against the towel rack.

“Sit here,” he told Enjolras, and set him very seriously down on the floor. “I’ll be with you in a moment, I promise. Jehan, are you alright?”  
“Grantaire, what’s happening? We heard shouting…”

“Shh, shh, it’s fine.” He crouched in front of Jehan and brushed some hair away from his face. “I think someone got into a fight. It’s alright, Courf and Joly are with them. And Combeferre’s there.”

“Oh, thas alright. It’ll be okay if Combeferre’s there.” He closed his eyes.

“Jehan?”

He didn’t respond.

Grantaire touched his hair again, slightly more firmly this time. Behind him he heard a scrabbling and what was unmistakably throwing up. Jehan opened his eyes again. “That Enjolras?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that is funny. I wish I didn’t feel so awful.”

“Are you alright.”

Jehan looked up suddenly, looked him straight in the eyes. “Grantaire, I really, really want Courfeyrac.”

“Jehan, that’s okay. I’ll go and get him.”

“No, don’t. Other person needs him more.”

“Jehan, it’s okay. They’ve got Combeferre and Joly there. Courfeyrac will want to be with you. Imagine how he’d feel if he knew that you were in here, missing him so much you’re crying.”

“I’m not crying,” he said, wiping his face. “I’ll go and get him.” He turned round to face Enjolras, who was resting his forehead on the toilet seat and was looking thoroughly wretched.

“Enj?”

“Nh.”

“I won’t be long.” He turned back to Jehan. “Make sure he doesn’t choke himself to death or anything.” Then he was out in the hall, looking in to the common room. Courfeyrac was looking right back at him, distractedly. He waved to get his attention, and he came hurrying over.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. He wants you. Is she?”

“Yeah,” he looked back into the common room to the girl on the sofa. “Marius sort of knows her, and she and Cosette go way back, apparently. She got the shit kicked out of her. She’s conscious, but she won’t say who did it. Joly said it’s worse than it looks because she got a tooth knocked out and that’s what all the blood is. He doesn’t think there’s concussion. Guy followed them here and Bahorel and Feuilly beat him to shit. Where’s Jehan?”

“’M here.”

Courf slid past Grantaire and in to the bathroom. “Hello, you. How’re you feeling?”

“I love you so much, Courfeyrac.”

“I know, sweetheart. I love you too. I love you so much I it makes me cry sometimes.” He drew Jehan carefully up to standing. Jehan nuzzled his face into his chest. Courf stroked his hair. “You’re in with me tonight, sweetheart. Someone else needs your bed.”

“Mmm.”

He smiled indulgently into the top of Jehan’s head and picked him up, squeezing Grantaire’s hand quickly. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They shared a hurried smile before Jehan fell fast asleep and Enjolras started up retching again.

“What are we going to do with you, eh?” Grantaire sat down beside him and drew all of his soft hair out of his face. It was such a tender gesture. He felt himself get slightly hard. He crossed his legs and firmly chastised his cock and gathered Enjolras’s hair up behind his head. “This is quite a turn up for the books.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s usually the other way round.”

“Never looked after you.”

“You did one time. You just blamed me for almost killing your debating career afterwards, that’s all.”

“Oh fuck I am so sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“N-” He retched again. Grantaire averted his eyes politely. When he was finished, he started up again. “No. I was cruel.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not cross.”

“Courf said I made you cry.”

Shit _shit_. When Courfeyrac came down in the morning, Grantaire was going to nail him to the wall.

“Don’t worry, I cry at a lot of things.”

“Shouldn’t. You’re nice.”

“Yeah, well.”

Enjolras sighed, resting his head on the rim again. After about a minute, he said, “I think I’m done.”

“Sure?”  
“Yeah.”

“Are you _sure_ you’re sure, because-”

“Yeah. I feel a lot better. Disgusting, but better.”

“Do you want to go through to the other room?”

“…yeah.”

Grantaire straightened up onto his aching knees. “Can you stand?”

“Think so.”

“Can you walk?”

“…maybe.”

Haltingly, he stood up, swayed, and caught hold of the towel rail. “Fuck.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I just…. can I lean on you?”

Grantaire nodded and slipped his arm around Enjolras’s waist, trying his best to ignore the tugging in his stomach. It got so much worse when Enjolras rested his head on his shoulder.

“You _are_ nice,” he half sighed, half purred into his hair.

His heart twitched.

So did his dick. His dick was so confused right now.

He and Enjolras walked back into the common room like a three legged creature. He could feel Enjolras getting sleepier by the moment. He sat him down as close to the action as he could.

“One of Marius and Cosette’s friends has had a fight. I’m going to see what I can do, okay?”

“Can I do anything?”

“I think they’ve already done everything useful. I’ll let you know if anything comes up, okay?”

Enjolras nodded, slightly dazed.

Grantaire rejoined the group in time to hear Combeferre say, “I think one of us should stay with her.”

“I will,” volunteered Marius.

“Or me. She might feel safer with another girl.” Musichetta  dabbed at the cut on Bossuet’s forehead and clipped him lightly as he flinched. “Honestly, you are hopeless.”

“I think it should be both of you,” Combeferre looked at the lethargic girl on the sofa, weighing up the options. Combeferre was the personification of Reason. “Musichetta’s right, but she _knows_ Marius. You should both keep her company, just to make sure.”  
“You’re going to have to  wake her up every quarter hour for the first two hours,” said Joly, straightening up. “Then every half hour for another two. Then hourly. I don’t think she’s concussed, but I want to be safe. You’re going to have a really disturbed night guys, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” said Marius, not taking his eyes of Cosette. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

“Yes, yes I’m fine, I’m… I should probably get _home_ , dad will start to worry, I-”

“I’ll walk you,” Marius said calmly, taking her arm. “Shh, it’s alright. Musichetta, is it alright if I take Cosette home?”

“Of course it’s alright, you idiot. Are you sure you’re okay, Cosette?”

Cosette nodded, wiping her eye.

“I’ll call round tomorrow, okay?” Musichetta said softly. “Bahorel, Feuilly, can you help me carry her up?”

“…can walk….”

“It’s alright, sweetheart. They’ve got you.” Musichetta touched the girl’s head. “It’s alright, you’re safe. I’ll keep you safe.”

Musichetta’s hand dislodged some hair on the girl’s face. Joly had cleaned off most of her blood.

“Shit,” said Grantaire, taking an involuntary step back. “I _know_ her.”

Feuilly nodded grimly. “We all do.”

“But… no, that’s our _waitress_ , why the hell would someone want to beat up a waitress-”

“… _wasn’t_ beaten up…”

“No,” said Bahorel gently, leaning at her head. “You weren’t.” He nodded at Feuilly and hoisted her up into a fireman’s carry. She looked so light.

“Jesus, she doesn’t weigh anything.”

“Upstairs, Bahorel,” said Musichetta shortly, standing up and straightening her skirts. Feuilly collected a small, patched bag which had escaped Grantaire’s notice completely and followed them upstairs.

“Well,” said Bossuet softly after they’d gone. “Shit.”

“What the _hell_ happened?” Grantaire asked, keeping half an eye on Enjolras, who looked ready to keel over.

“Really, I’m not sure myself. We had dinner late because of my train thing, met Marius and Cosette, who’d seen a film, ran into this. Christ alive, I need to sleep.”

Joly nodded by his side, looking dead on his feet. Bossuet took his wrist and led him upstairs gently.

Combeferre stretched himself out. Grantaire jumped. He’d forgotten about Combeferre.

“D’you want me to deal with him?” he asked, nodding at Enjolras.

“Nah, it’s alright. I’ve got him.”

“You sure? I’m kind of half the reason he got into this state…”

“The other half was me, it’s fine. Go to bed, you look shattered.”

“Mm…” Combeferre nodded, his eyes closed. “When I said he should have a break, I didn’t really mean this.”

“Yeah, well. Hopefully he’ll learn.”

“Yeah.” Combeferre took one last look at his friend. “Okay. I’m heading up, if you don’t mind.”

“Night.”

“Night.”

That just left him and Enjolras. Enjolras. Enjolras had fallen asleep or into a slumber or in to some beautiful netherworld. He looked ethereal. Grantaire sort of half-wanted to paint him. He hadn’t painted anything in a long time. Enjolras looked like the subject of some Pre-Raphaelite, just before they were about to die of tuberculosis. He almost glowed, soft, subtle, like Cabanel’s Ophelia.

Grantaire knelt down between his legs and stroked down his nose, over his freckles once. Then again. Enjolras screwed his eyes shut, then opened them gently. These eyes could be terrible when they wanted to be. Enjolras.

“Come on, you. Bedtime.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras held his hand out to Grantaire, who took it and pulled him up gently. Enjolras fell against him like a child. Grantaire didn’t want to leave him alone, especially not tonight. Enjolras might freak out of he woke up in a different bed, but then his room was probably cleaner. And if Grantaire prided himself on anything, it was the ability to sleep absolutely anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cabanal's Ophelia is the best Ophelia, let no-one else tell you otherwise.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up with hurting bones. He was on the floor because…

Because Enjy.

He smiled quietly to himself. Enjy. He’d been quite a thing to behold. Was he still sleeping? Maybe he should make him coffee. He might like that. He could wake him up with coffee and watch him smile sleepily. Unless he didn’t like getting out of bed and rolled away rebelliously. That was more likely to be an Enjy thing. Difficult and irritable.

Still smiling, he opened his eyes.

Oh.

He wasn’t there.

He sat up, rubbed hair out of his eyes. There was a perfectly made bed facing him (who the hell even _made_ their bed?) and no Enjolras at all. _It least it means he’s not feeling poorly_ , Grantaire told himself.

He sat up disappointedly. Sleeping on a rolled up sweatshirt had given him a headache. Fucking _Enjolras_. Maybe he’d have coffee anyway, by himself. Just to spite him.

He padded through to the little kitchenette at the end of the corridor and saw someone collapsed over the table, giving off an air of disgruntlement.

Last night came flooding back to him.

“…. oh, yeah.”

The Someone lifted her dark head and looked up at him. One half of her lip had swollen up spectacularly and she didn’t look like she could see out of her left eye. A tooth was missing.

“…Wow. You okay?”

“I found gay porn in the night.”

“Err, wow.”

She groaned dramatically and let her head fall back on the table.

“Can I… get you anything?”

She waved a cup at him demandingly.

“Tea?”

“Fucking coffee, you twat, what the hell is wrong with you.”

He banged about in the cupboard, looking for the caffetiere. She looked wrecked; she might as well have something decent, even if he was fighting the urge to spit in it. “I think I prefer you when you’re working.”

“Yeah, well I’m fucking not at the moment, am I?”

“Do you want something to eat? You look like you should.”

“Piss off.”

“You’re gonna have to put the kettle on yourself if I do.”

She snorted. Grantaire snapped the kettle on and leant against the sideboard. “You’re not really wanting to talk, are you?”

“ _Half my mouth is missing_.”

“D’you want paracetamol or something?”

“You fucking with me? I’ve had, like, seven this morning.”

“You’re not meant to exceed the stated dose” he said pathetically. The girl didn’t move her head off her arms, but he could feel a glare radiating off her. He stood awkwardly for a few minutes until the kettle had boiled, after which he stood awkwardly with two cups of coffee in his hand.

He almost dropped them both in delight when Musichetta walked in.

“Grantaire.” She greeted him curtly. “It’s nine o’clock in the morning and you’re moving about.”

“Stranger things have happened…” he said, nodding at the pile leaning on the table. Musichetta gave him a Look, walked over and started stroking the girl’s hair.

“You awake, honey?”

“Hnjj.”

“I’ve got breakfast, if you want anything. We’ve made an emergency appointment at the dentist’s for this morning, okay? I’ve sent my boyfrie- Grantaire, put that _down_ or I will ram it up your arse so hard my hand will come out your mouth.”

Grantaire put the croissant down slowly. “I’d love to see that,” Table Girl said weakly.

“Well, maybe I will” Musichetta cooed.

Grantaire poured another cup of coffee from the jug for Musichetta, who had arranged some pastries artfully on a plate and had put them in Table Girl’s easy reach. “So, do I get an explanation or something?”

“About what?” She banged down a mug next to the pastry plate. “You were there.”

“I saw people shouting in between throwing Enjy about.”

“Where _is_ Enjy?”

“… I don’t know. I thought you might have seen him.”

“He’s off doing shit, you can never keep him in one place for long. Don’t worry, hon. D’you might if I tell him?”

“Hng.”

“Her name’s Eponine. She was Cosette’s foster sister, actually. We caught some twat laying in to her by the café.  Turns out it was her fucking _boyfriend_. Bought her in here. Bossuet’s picking up clothes from her flat. I don’t fucking care what Uni say, she’s staying with us.”

“Christ, God help us all when you have children.”

She twirled around and fixed him with the best glare she’d ever given. “I know where you sleep, sweetheart.”

“Not in his own room, apparently,” Courf’s voice smiled, closely followed by Courf. “Morning, everyone.”

“ _Courfeyrac_ ,” said Musichetta sweetly. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. We found some wonderful photos in Jehan’s bed last night, didn’t we, Eponine?”

Table Girl lifted her head and gave him a catlike smile.

~*~

“Where _is_ your Jehan?”

“My Jehan is sleeping off his hangover in bed. Can I, like, bring him a pain au chocalat or something? He kinda looks like he might die.”

“If you want,” Musichetta said, ignoring the pointed look from Grantaire. “Pity he won’t eat meat, he could do with a bacon sandwich.”

“ _Is_ there bacon?” asked Courfeyrac hopefully.

“No.”

“Well, then. My pastry and I may go somewhere where there’s more for us. Who’s this?”

Musichetta said “Eponine” and the same time as Eponine said “Fuck _off_.”

“She looks like she should still be in bed.”

“Yeah, well she doesn’t fucking have one at the moment, does she? And the one she’s staying in has fucking dried flower petals under the pillow.”

“He forgets to take them out of his hair when he sleeps sometimes,” Courfeyrac said simply.

“It’s like fucking potpourri.”

“He’ll be honoured to know that.”

“I’ll fucking tell him, then.”

“I’ve never heard you swear this much before.”

“Yeah, well you’re usually telling me to get stuff for you, aren’t you?”

Courfeyrac broke off and looked a bit embarrassed. Grantaire said a silent prayer of thanks, because

he did not want to be dealing with Courf’s shit this time in the morning, and he didn’t want to go back to his own room, because that would be final confirmation that he’d gone. He wanted a drink and a smoke and then to take someone outside and glass them in the face, in no particular order.

Probably Marius. He clenched and released his fists.

“So!” Musichetta said, trying to cut through the awkwardness with her faux brightness.

“ _Look_ at me, pretty boy. Count the teeth in my face. If Marius hadn’t come across me, it would have carried on, okay? And what would you have said the next day? Would you have noticed? Would you have _asked_? Would I have had to make up some bullshit answer about how I walked in to a door or whatever the shit people use for excuses when their useless shit boyfriend beat them up? Then would you have taken it at face fucking value?”

Courf opened his mouth, but took too long thinking about his answer.

“Then what the fuck would you have done, hmm? Anything at all? Called the police? Told my boss?”

Musichetta moved silently over to the kettle and started making more cups of tea.

“Looked at me sympathetically, maybe. Left me a bigger tip. Yes, ta, that would have been _so_ well received. Felt like you could do some fucking good in the world.”

Courf rounded on Grantaire, wide eyed. Grantaire shrugged, equally as astounded. There didn’t look like there was enough room in her for all that vitriol.

Musichetta put a cup of tea down in front of her.

Courfeyrac followed it with a bottle of whiskey.

Eponine looked up at him. “Fucking _thank you_.”

~*~

Enjolras was sitting on a bench quietly. He hadn’t known how to react when he’d almost stepped on and killed Grantaire.


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras ran a hand through his tired hair. One night.  He’d let his guard down for one _fucking_ night.  He was going to crucify Combeferre when he found him, crucify him and… read him incorrect maths equations and….   _fuck_. He leant back into the wall, his cigarette starting to burn his fingers. Fucking Bahorel and fucking Feuilly and fucking _Grantaire_ , oh _fuck_ Grantaire. Fucking useless Grantaire that did nothing but piss him off and then look at him so fragilely and he’d actually held his _hair_ back and talked to him and stroked him and he’d just sat there with the room tipping merrily. He hated himself. He hated himself so much he hoped he’d catch fire with it. Maybe that’s what he’d do to Combeferre. Get him piss dunk and leave him with the most notorious drunken bastard in the world.

Because he’d probably weather it a hell of a lot better than Enjolras had and he’d probably even keep his glasses on and _shit_. He debated sliding down the wall dejectedly and crying until he saw a huge body wrapped in a huge Iron Maiden hoodie working its way down the street.

He called out, “hey.”

Bahorel stopped and looked over both shoulders.

“Bahorel.”

“Fuck Enj.” He turned around and revealed his colossal shiner to the world. “I didn’t know where the shit that was coming from. Why are you hanging about alone in the street?”

“Fresh air. Jesus, your _face_.”

“Yeah, s’fine. Fresh _air_? You’re smoking. Oh hang on, you’re actually fucking _not_ , are you? You’ve set some flowers on fire to try and look rebellious.”

“Why are you walking down the street carrying McDonald’s?”

“For the lady.”

Enjy tried his hardest to think.

“… did that girl not leave?”

Bahorel looked at him.

“The one Marius has been stalking?”

“ _Dude_.”

“What? He hasn’t exactly been normal about it.”

Bahorel’s confusion suddenly burst into gleeful delight. “Oh my God, you genuinely don’t remember! Dude, how far gone were you? Cosette’s friend?”

Enjolras looked blank.

“Shit, mate. Well, Marius and Cosette were out. One of Cosette’s friend’s boyfriend who was _beating her in the street_. Are you seriously telling me you don’t fucking remember?”

“Christ alive.”

“Yeah. So we bought her home. She’s up in the dorms right now.”

“Right now? Isn’t that against the rules?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Are you going straight there?”

Bahorel looked at him. “You joking? The chips will go cold.”

“Oh. Yeah, I suppose”

“You alright, Enj?”

“Yeah. I just… don’t want to go back just yet.”

“Still feeling rough?”

“Sort of.”

“Happens to the best of us, mate. And it’s not like Grantaire minds.”

Enjolras snorted.

“Why, what’s wrong with Grantaire?”

“Nothing. It’s just he’s… you know. Perpetually drunk.”

“Yeah, so’s everyone.”

Enjolras scoffed. Yeah, well. There’s being young and there’s being stupid.”

“I don’t know, mate,” Bahorel said, managing to take a cigarette out of his own coat pocket and light it in one fluid motion. “I think he’s had some pretty rough shit in his life.”

Enjolras tossed his head. “Mmm.”

 

                                                                                ~*~

 

Courf sat down heavily beside him. “Can I have some of your fag?”

Grantaire passed it over to him quietly.

“Thanks mate. Feisty one, isn’t she?”

“Huh?”

“You alright, ‘Aire?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

He’d have denied it. But something inside him broke. “It’s like, think how _long_ took taking care of him last night, you know? I don’t even get a fucking thank you.”  
Courfeyrac took a drag of his Grantaire’s cigarette thoughtfully. “You know, there’s this thing called the ‘Apollo archetype’”

“Oh,” said Grantaire.

“We did it in Psychology. It’s where you’d rather think than feel, or have distance rather than closeness, that kind of thing.”

“Uh.”

“Sound like anyone you know?”

“Uh.”

“So you shouldn’t take it to heart because it’s his archetype. Which comes from a deep rooted desire to sleep with his grandfather or something, I don’t know. I didn’t really pay attention”

“Nah, not his grandfather,” said Grantaire, taking back the remains of his cigarette. “Robespierre, maybe.” 

                                                                                ~*~

Enj reached his bed and collapsed backwards. Grantaire had tidied up his little bed. Oh, no. He hadn’t. His hoodie was still there. The one that had slipped off his shoulder slightly. Enjolras had reached around and tucked it gently back in.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains light references to smoking, drugs and alcohol, lest ye be warned.

“What did he say?” Musichetta linked into Eponine’s arm as soon as she walked through the door. “How is it?”

Eponine shrugged. “Could be better, could be worse. Have to have one removed but others can be capped. Going to have to keep going back for a few weeks.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter. It’s not like I don’t have more.”

“Are they going to give you a false one?”

“Probably.” She wriggled. “I don’t think your bra fits, though. It’s been riding up all day, and when I was in the chair, I swear a boob fell out. I had to wrangle it before the dentist saw.”

Musichetta looked down at Eponine’s chest. “Come here. No homo.”

She cupped Eponine’s boobs, sort of squeezed and let go again.

“Yeah, I reckon you’re about a C.”

“Did you just _weigh_ my boobs?”

“You’re lucky, you’ve got a perfect handful. If these babies get free, it’s every man for himself. Oh, hi Joly.”

He just stood and looked at them wide eyedly and with a slightly dazed air. “Hi…”

“How long have you been there?”

“I’ve… been here the whole time. I came back from the dentist with Eponine.”

“Oh.” Musichetta paused, then shrugged. “Oh well. Are you coming up?”

She linked back up with Eponine and led her back upstairs. Joly stood there, looking mildly bemused.

~*~ 

Grantaire was lying on his back in a darkened room. His eyes had stopped leaking, which he was glad if. He wasn’t even sure why they’d started. He decided there was nothing he could do but roll over and call Courfeyrac.

He picked up on the second ring.

“Courf?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you come over?”

“What, now?”

“Yeah.”

“Erm,” there were some rustling sounds on the end of the phone, and then “yeah, sure. Where are you?”

“In my room.”

“Dude, your room is like two doors down from mine, why the hell did you call me?”

“Just come.”

Courf sighed. “Sure, okay. I’ll be over in ten seconds.”

Grantaire nodded and hung up. He lay dormant for a few more moments until he was roused by knocking.

“Seven seconds,” he said, opening the door.

“Well what did you expect, I only had to walk three paces.” He invited himself in, pushing lightly past Grantaire and sitting on his desk. “So, what did you want me for?”

Grantaire sat down on his bed heavily. “Er.”

“Hmm?”

“Well…”

There was a very obvious pause.

“I could be having sex right now, you realise.” Courf chipped in at last.

“So could I!” said Grantaire hotly. “But that’s… kinda what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Sex?”

“Well, not really, but-”

“So what is it?”

Grantaire sighed and flopped backwards. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

“When have I _ever_ laughed at you?!”

“Fuck off. And don’t tell anyone, either. Anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it, Courf.”

“Hey,” Courfeyrac sat gently beside him and lightly squeezed his foot. “What’s up?”

Grantaire burrowed his face into his duvet. “If I say it, it might become real.”

Courfeyrac hesitated, and then stroked his hair. “You don’t have to, you never have to. But maybe I can help you. If you’re in trouble, or-”

“’M not in trouble”

“Well, that’s good, but-”

“I think I have a crush on a dude.”

All the cells in his body held their breath.

Nothing happened.

Then Courf spoke.

“You do?”

Grantaire nodded.

“Oh, mate… How do you feel?”

“What, in general?”

 

“Generally.”

“I… don’t know, I-” Grantaire sat up. “I’ve- shit. I’ve kinda got used to the idea by now, and I know there’s nothing _wrong_ with it, but… I- I don’t know. It freaked me out, but now I’m like ‘so what’ but then I’m still not gay, you know? Like, I know I don’t like guys. It’s just this _one_ guy, and-”

“Do you want to talk about who it is?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“You can probably guess, though” he added petulantly

“No, not if you don’t want me to,” (and Grantaire tried his best not to be strangely touched, because he’d already promised himself he wouldn’t cry), “but I’ll be here if you want to tell me.”

“I know,” he smiled. “That’s why I told you.”

Courf tried to hide his returned smile behind his hair.

“Don’t take that the wrong way, you’re an unholy fuckstick most of the time. I mean- _ow_ , don’t fucking kick me you shit… and yeah, you’re the only person I’ve told. So if this gets out I know who to come for.”

“I won’t, Taire.”

They lay in silence for a few moments. Then Courf flopped off the bed and came wiggling back with a bottle of Bailey’s.

Grantaire sat bolt upright.

“How the _fuck_ did you manage that?”

“I bought it over with me. I thought you might need cheering up or something, I don’t know. But if you don’t want it any more….”

“You bring that back here right now you douchecanoe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Genomes is not as dull as it sounds.
> 
> Seriously, the fucking Muppets though. In my head Courf and Jehan sit under a blanket in slippers watching Muppet films.
> 
> The next chapter will contain fluffy drunk Enj.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Contains mild references to child abuse and neglect

“So, yeah, that’s me. I mean, I never really did a lot until I came here. And I still don’t do much now. I kinda…” Grantaire lent back and gestured around him. “Yeah.”

They were sat in a small pub-cum-bar just off one of the main streets. Eponine was wearing Bahorel’s old Iron Maiden hoodie, a pair of shorts and not a lot else. She must be freezing, Grantaire thought absently.

“Yeah, I get it.” Eponine sipped her vodka and coke delicately. Grantaire leaned in slightly closer hear her over ‘Super Bass’. Only one of her teeth had had to be taken out, she could get away with the rest being capped, but it still hurt. So she had a straw and she felt like a twat. I did, like, fuck all between the ages of eight and twelve. Got a bit more pro-active as I got older, though.” She hesitated, tapping ice cubes with her straw. “My brother, my little brother Gav isn’t my proper brother, you see? My mum had an affair and she tried to cover it but the kid came out white and my dad never trusted anything that came out her vagina since. So he didn’t like Gavroche, or Christien or Rhett either. Got a bit short with them. Didn’t like to spend his money on them. Of course, his money was mum’s money and… I don’t know, it was really weird. She just kinda disconnected from them. It was like she didn’t really think they were hers because dad didn’t really think they were his. I don’t know. It kind of fell to me, but I didn’t care. I’d looked after most of the foster kids, so-”

“Wait, fuck, hang on a second,” Grantaire said, blinking and leaning forward. “You’ve just spent the past ten minutes telling me that your parents are the biggest criminals in London, are you fucking with me that the system trusted them with other people’s kids?”

Eponine shrugged. “System trusts anyone if it suits them. They weren’t really that bad before Gavroche. They were never _good_ parents, I mean, shit, they had us in on the business since we were about eight but I mean, we ate. And they both had jobs. Plus, we had room. It all looked legit on paper. Cosette was the last one we had, though. The last kid. I was, I don’t know, seven, eight? Gav was born not long after.”

“It’s weird that you two should meet here after so long. We’re not even that close to London.”

Eponine smiled wryly. “Yes. Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“Were you friends, you two?”

She laughed humourlessly. “She wanted to be.” There was a very prominent, unspoken full stop at the end of that sentence. Then she met Grantaire’s eyes again, and with almost overwhelming false brightness said, “So, tell me about your friends!”

Grantaire finished his beer and wiped his mouth. “I’m going to get another drink, do you want one?”

“You’re not getting out of this!”

“I know! I’m just trying to be a gentleman, so do you want one or am I going to tell the bar staff you’re underage?”

“You are such a sarky little shit, you know that? I’ll have a rum and coke if you’re offering; make it a pint and don’t think about spitting in it or I’ll choke you with your own tongue.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows while flagging down a waiter. “Jesus. Interesting, but I’m not going to get the chance. Hi, pint of rum and coke and the same again, please. I have a tab.”

“Cool,” the man leant over Eponine to reach Grantaire’s glass. She pulled the jacket Bahorel had leant her closer and glowered at him, fishing her straw out of the remains of her glass.

“Yeah, the great thing about living in a University town is that everywhere is so overstaffed.”

“Can’t get a job for shit, though. So, tell me about your friends.”

“Not a lot to tell, really. You probably know Musichetta better than I do. I like her, but our paths don’t really cross a lot. She’s cool, she’s studying music. She’s got two boyfriends, one’s doing law, one’s doing medicine. There’s another medical student, Combeferre, he’s the one with glasses. Again like, I like him, but I don’t know if he likes me that much. Courfeyrac’s got all the hair, he’s the one you chewed out earlier. He’s nice but, yeah, he could have been more sensitive about that. He was mortified, though. He’s a really good guy, I think you’ll like him.”

Eponine snorted.

“Don’t, I knew him when we were kids. He helped me through a lot. We went to college together and then we came here.”

“Yeah, well. I think I’m going to make up my own mind about him. Go on.”

Grantaire’s mouth quirked dryly, and for the first time, he felt the strong affection for Eponine he’d been building throughout the night drop a notch. He dug his nails into his hand and made a note to talk to Courf later.

The waiter came back with their glasses. Grantaire slipped a few pounds onto his tray.

“Well, anyway. He’s going out with Jehan, who’s like Byron, except don’t mention Byron to him because he thinks Byron’s a fuckwit. Jehan has pink hair at the moment. Then there’s Feuilly and Bahorel who aren’t actually dating. You’re wearing Bahorel’s hoodie. He’s cool. Feuilly’s an engineer. Then there’s Marius, who fell out a fucking Disney film. He’s been on a date with Cosette like, once, and apparently it’s true love. It’s kinda cute. It really pisses of Enjolras.”

“What the fuck kind of name is _Enjolras_?” Eponine screwed up her face. “Jesus, I thought me and Zelm had it bad.”

Grantaire smiled. “Yeah, he hates it. His dad’s Home Secretary.”

“No fucking _shit_.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s like, the one thing Enjolras hates more than his name. He hates being associated with his dad, he-he’s not like him. He’s joined the Labour Party and like, all the different Socialist factions going. He’s doing politics. I don’t know if he wants to go into it, though. He hates the whole idea. Anyway, his parents sent him to Harrow and Eton and he got himself thrown out of both and went to the local technical college and that’s where he met Combeferre, so the two of them are pretty tight. They’re close with Courf, too, he kind of divides his time between them and me.”

“Sounds like you have a lot of friends.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Yeah, I’m more the token hanger on than anything. They like you.”

“Well, thank fuck for that, because I like them and I can waste less time making them like me.”

Grantaire smiled and a horrible thing clenched. “I should probably get you back to barracks.”

“It’s, like, midnight.”

“Yeah, for you, maybe. I’ve got a meeting with one of my professors tomorrow morning.”

“Dude, from what I gather that should mean nothing to you.”

“Yeah, but if I miss these I could get thrown out. Musichetta might kill me if you aren’t home.”

“Shit, your professor sounds like a barrel of laughs.”

“Valjean? Nah, he’s not bad. They were going to chuck me after the first term and he managed to persuade the board not to, as long as I checked in with him every week. He’s a pretty good guy, I suppose.” He downed the last of his drink. “Coming?”

“Yeah, give me a fucking moment,” Eponine said, before chugging the rough three quarters of a pint she had left. “Your professor wouldn’t be Jean Valjean, would he?”

“Specialises in 19th Century French crime and punishment.”

“Oldish guy, really built?”

“Yeah, him. Do you know him?”

Eponine looked at him like he’d grown three extra teeth. “Well, yeah. He’s Cosette’s uncle.”

“He’s her uncle?” Grantaire started slightly. “Huh. I just thought he was her stepfather.”

“Yeah, no, he’s her uncle too. I know ‘cause he was in prison when her mum died and that’s why she came to stay with us.”

“Wait, no, hang on. Valjean was in _prison_?!” 

~*~

Combeferre was in his dressing gown, just sliding off his slippers when there was a gentle knock at the door.

“Oh, fuck” he whispered to himself. “Come in!”

Enjolras’s  fluffy head poked itself around the doorframe.

“Oh, it’s you. Come on in, don’t stand out in the cold.”

Enjolras padded in and perched himself on the end of Combeferre’s bed. His hair was put roughly up in a messy bun with his hoodie zipped up and hanging off one shoulder. Combeferre regarded him with interest as he got into bed, hugging his knees to give Enjolras room. Enjolras put his feet on Combeferre’s shins and chewed at his thumbnail.

“Enjy, love you as I do, I don’t know what you’re thinking.”

Enjolras said “hnng”.

“Take your thumb out of your mouth.”

Enjolras glared at him.

“Enjolras,” he chided gently.

Enjolras unfolded his arms and looped them around his knees loosely. “Do you think I’m a good person?”

Whatever Combeferre had been expecting, he didn’t think it was this. He tried his best not to look as taken aback as he was by reaching around to his bedside table and retrieving his glasses. He fixed Enjolras with a look. “Enjolras, what’s bought this on?”

“Just, generally.”

“You’re one of the best people I know,” Combeferre blinked. “Enjolras, look at me. I’m not saying this because you’re my friend. I’m saying this because I’d be lying if I wasn’t. You’re… selfless. Not in the conventional sense, but-”

“No.” said Enjolras flatly. “Not in the conventional sense.”

“Enjolras, I hate to say it, but you’re not making a lot of sense.” Combeferre shifted further up his bed, dislodging Enjolras’s feet slightly as he did so.

“Enj, you come in to my room at-” he checked his watch “-almost half past midnight to ask me what I think of you, and you try and turn the first thing I say into something negative. What’s up?”

Enjolras crossed his legs again.

“Grantaire.”

“What about him?”

Enjolras sighed and stretched himself out like a cat. “I just… I feel really bad about what happened the other day. Between us. I just… I never meant to get like that.”

“Is this about the debate?”

“I was feeling so unprepared. And I had spent longer in the café than I’d planned because I was arguing with him and that cut in to my last minute preparation time.”

“Yeah, and if I remember rightly you also did the verbal equivalent of shooting Marius in the face.”

Enjolras waved a hand, “Marius is used to it.”

“Enjolras…”

“I _know_ Marius better than I know Grantaire. I never actually meant for him to find out I was pissed with him, but that doesn’t excuse me, I know. I don’t know anything about him. Bahorel said he’s had a pretty hard time of it. Generally.”

“If this is some roundabout way of asking me to tell you what I know, I wouldn’t. Even if I did know… anything, really, about Grantaire’s home life. It’s not mine to tell.”

“No, I know.” Enjolras lay still for a moment, and then said “Do you think I’m mean to him?”

“Not _mean…_ ”

“Short. Sharp. Cruel.”

Comebferre put a hand on his knee. “You aren’t cruel, Enjolras.”

“Hmmn.”

“Look, if you really want him to know all this, why don’t you talk to him?”

“He wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

“Enjolras, he wouldn’t leave your side the night Eponine arrived. That was the one and only time you’ve ever been drunk in the time I’ve known you, and he insisted he’d deal with it. He wanted to do it all by himself. I’m pretty sure he’ll have a civil conversation with you if you ask him.”

“Hmmn.”

Combeferre took off his glasses and rubbed his nose. “What are we going to _do_ about Eponine?”

“Hmm?”

“Eponine.”

“Oh. I don’t know.”

“She can’t stay here, can she.”

“Does she need to? I mean, she seems pretty well able to look after herself, and-”

“So you’re saying we should just leave her.”

“That’s not what I’m saying! That’s not what I’m saying at all, Jesus, Combeferre! I’m saying that we shouldn’t assume that she needs ‘saving’ because she’s a different gender, race and socio-economic status to us.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that she needs saving,” Combeferre said gently. “I’m sorry, I should have worded myself better. But if she doesn’t want to go back to wherever she lives yet, or if she doesn’t have anywhere, we should be able to offer or direct her towards somewhere to stay, don’t you think?”

“Marius’s friend knows her. Maybe she could do something.”

Combeferre looked at him, mildly amused. “By ‘Marius’s friend’, do you mean Cosette?”

“Yeah. I’ve never met her.”

“I don’t think any of us have, really. Not formally. Maybe he’s afraid we’ll scare her off.”

“We’re terrifying,” said Enjolras, through a badly concealed yawn.

“Go to bed, Enjolras.”

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. Early. I’ll wake you up for your lecture.”

“Mmn, I know you will.£ Enjolras slithered off the end of the bed and stretched himself. “Oh! I almost forgot to ask. How was your stay in prison?”

“ _That_? Oh, it was nothing. Just that officer who’s not that fond of any of us. He- oh, Christ, I’ve forgotten his name. Anyway, I’m not talking to you any more. Go to sleep.”

Enjolras nodded, and decided resolutely to talk to Grantaire in the morning.


	10. 10

The morning found Grantaire before Grantaire found the morning. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown out of his covers and grazing the carpet tiles. He rubbed his eyes with it, rolled over and took his phone off charge. He turned down the brightness and texted Courfeyrac.

 

“What’s the story, morning glory?” He asked cheerily a minute later, perched on the side of Grantaire’s legs. How’s the head?” He had three new lovebites stretching from just under his ear to dipping underneath his shirt.

“Head’s fine, morning glory doesn’t have a story to tell. Did you know Valjean was in prison?”

 

Courfeyrac’s hand stopped playing with the cover absently. “Shut up.”

 

“I’m not kidding.”

 

“You’re _shitting_ me. Is that why he’s so stacked?”

 

Grantaire shrugged. “Dunno. Possibly. Shouldn’t imagine there’s much else to do in prison. Shit, I’ve got to see the dude today and all I’m going to be thinking of is him in a

fucking jumpsuit. What do you think he did?”

 

Courf blew air out through his teeth. “Oh Jesus, I don’t know. You know the guy better than I do. Misdemeanour, probably. Libel or taxes or something.”

“I don’t think it was libel, they probably wouldn’t have let him work here. Mind you, I’m surprised they’re doing that at all. Christ, it’s such a weird thought.”

 

“Do you know anything more about it?”

 

“Nah, just that. It was a while ago apparently. Just kinda wanted to tell someone. Wanted a conversation to start the morning with, you know?”

 

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac balanced is chin on his knee. “Yeah man, I get that.”

 

“Jehan still asleep?”

 

“Jehan’s awake and away. He left about an hour and a half ago for work. I’ve got labs for days today as well, I don’t think I’m going to see him until this evening.”

“Meet him for lunch or something.”

 

Courf shrugged. “Meeting Combeferre, said he wanted to talk about something. You’re taking a very vested interest in me and Jehan all of a sudden.”

 

“Yeah, well. Nice to know what’s going on in your friend’s lives, isn’t it? Be connected and all that.”

 

“You need to haul ass out of here if you’re going to make your tute for ten, my man.”

 

Grantaire fished around his side for his phone again. “Oh shit, yeah. Jesus, time didn’t register. Are you in tonight?”

 

“Yeah, I’m in. Nothing better to do.”

 

“Cool.”

 

Courfeyrac was quiet, then slapped his legs. “Wear your grey jumper today man, and black trousers. Kettle’s boiled in the kitchen if you’re interested. See you soon.” He took

hold of Grantaire’s hand and squeezed it quickly. Grantaire squeezed back.

 

~*~

Combeferre was spread across his small table reading about surgical recall when Courf

came in at last, slamming his back down on the chair and unwrapping his scarf.

 

“Sorry I’m late, man, labs overran and we weren’t allowed out till everyone was at a viable stopping point. Been waiting long?”

 

“No, you’re fine,” he said, closing his book and putting it back in his bag. “I ordered tea, by the way, in case you’re interested. I just wanted something that wasn’t sandwiches in

cling film.”

 

“Ugh, I know man, it’s grim. Are you eating?”

 

“Yeah, but probably not a great deal. Don’t let that stop you, though.”

 

“Oh, I don’t intend it to.” He looked around. The Musain was always what passed for quiet at around lunchtime, mainly due to the fact that most of its regulars were waking up.

He caught the eye of the waitress and managed to think involuntarily of Eponine. That conversation they’d had the other day had stuck with him. What _would_ he have done?

 

“So what’s on your mind, ‘Ferre? Aside from all the usual?”

 

“Nothing, probably.” He took his glasses off before they steamed up over his tea. “You know how we all kind of blow things out of proportion a bit after last time, but does

Enjolras seem okay to you?”

 

“Is this about the other night?”

 

“The drinking thing?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Combeferre shook his head. “No, nothing about that. I don’t think it was related. He’s just getting mopey. He came into my room last night and started asking me all these things

about how people see him and what he’s like. He’s never cared that much before.”

 

“I think he has.”

 

“Not in this way.” Combeferre put his mug down. “This is about his person, rather than his persona, I think. I’m just kinda worried about how insecure he seems to be.”

 

Courfeyrac thought back to his weird conversation with Grantaire that morning. “Yeah, I can imagine. Shit like that is pretty worrying.”

 

“You say you haven’t seen anything?”

 

“Not particularly. Although to tell you the truth, I’ve not really been paying attention. I’ll definitely keep an eye out, though. Is there anything you want me to look for?”

 

Combeferre shrugged again. “Nothing out of the ordinary, I don’t think. I don’t know, I’m probably blowing this up to be bigger than it is. I’m just racking my brains trying to

think of a catalyst.”

 

“You don’t think it’s Eponine, do you?”

 

“I don’t think it’s Eponine. Although, shit,” he broke off and rubbed a hand over his face. “Jesus, poor Eponine. Her face looked a fucking mess.”

 

“She looks better, now.”

 

“Still kind of fucking terrifying though, isn’t it? I have no idea what she can do in the long run. But yeah, that can be next on the agenda. He was acting kind of weird before.”

 

“Sometimes he generally does just get weird though.”

 

“Yeah, true. I’ve never met anyone moodier. I think it might have something to do with Grantaire.”

 

Courfeyrac’s interest piqued. He looked back at Combeferre from the sandwich he’d been coveting and clasped his hands on the table. “Yeah? Why?”

 

“Because I’m a dick who reads far further into things than I should. I don’t know, I just think it’s weird that he targeted him that time and lashed out at him for no reason. He

feels so bad for it now, but it was so _random_ , like. Grantaire wasn’t even there.”

 

Courfeyrac screwed his mouth to one side and nodded in vague assent. His mind was on Grantaire’s quiet confession from the other night, how he hadn’t looked at him when

he’d said it.

 

_It’s not guys, it’s just this one guy…._

_You can probably guess who it is though_.

 

“Enjolras can get quite proud.”

 

“Yeah, but he never gets unreasonable. Well, not totally up in the air unreasonable, anyway.”

 

“Shall we do some detective work?”

 

Combeferre’s soup arrived alongside Courfeyrac’s panini and they both looked at each other, half grinning.

 

“I think detective work might be an idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOOOOOOOOO GUESS WHO'S BACK
> 
> I was chatting to Alix the other day and it made me realise how much I miss writing about about how little I've done for well over a year and a half, so I'm doing like a baby nano and getting back into it again. Also, reading bakc through it made me realise how much I liked this fic.
> 
> So after nearly TWO YEARS, during which time I've finished school, emigrated, come back, got a dog, a load more new piercings and a tattoo and a new title for this fic, it's staying back <3
> 
> AND a new chapter of Persuasion is going up tomorrow!!
> 
> Love to you alllllllll xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx


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